It was sitting by the fire, in a mysterious and magnificent retreat,--now a thing of the past but surviving in our memory,-- whence our eyes commanded a view of Paris from the heights of Belleville to those of Belleville, from Montmartre to the triumphal Arc de l'Etoile, that one morning, refreshed by tea, amid the myriad suggestions that shoot up and die like rockets from your sparkling flow of talk, lavish of ideas, you tossed to my pen a figure worthy of Hoffmann,--that casket of unrecognized gems, that pilgrim seated at the gate of Paradise with ears to hear the songs of the angels but no longer a tongue to repeat them, playing on the ivory keys with fingers crippled by the stress of divine inspiration, believing that he is expressing celestial music to his bewildered listeners.

It was you who created GAMBARA; I have only clothed him. Let me render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, regretting only that you do not yourself take up the pen at a time when gentlemen ought to wield it as well as the sword, if they are to save their country. You may neglect yourself, but you owe your talents to us.

GAMBARA

New Year's Day of 1831 was pouring out its packets of sugared almonds,four o'clock was striking, there was a mob in the Palais-Royal, andthe eating-houses were beginning to fill. At this moment a coupe drewup at the /perron/ and a young man stepped out; a man of haughtyappearance, and no doubt a foreigner; otherwise he would not havedisplayed the aristocratic /chasseur/ who attended him in a plumedhat, nor the coat of arms which the heroes of July still attacked.

This gentleman went into the Palais-Royal, and followed the crowdround the galleries, unamazed at the slowness to which the throng ofloungers reduced his pace; he seemed accustomed to the stately stepwhich is ironically nicknamed the ambassador's strut; still, hisdignity had a touch of the theatrical. Though his features werehandsome and imposing, his hat, from beneath which thick black curlsstood out, was perhaps tilted a little too much over the right ear,and belied his gravity by a too rakish effect. His eyes, inattentiveand half closed, looked down disdainfully on the crowd.

"There goes a remarkably good-looking young man," said a girl in a lowvoice, as she made way for him to pass.

"And who is only too well aware of it!" replied her companion aloud--who was very plain.

After walking all round the arcades, the young man looked by turns atthe sky and at his watch, and with a shrug of impatience went into atobacconist's shop, lighted a cigar, and placed himself in front of alooking-glass to glance at his costume, which was rather more ornatethan the rules of French taste allow. He pulled down his collar andhis black velvet waistcoat, over which hung many festoons of the thickgold chain that is made at Venice; then, having arranged the folds ofhis cloak by a single jerk of his left shoulder, draping it gracefullyso as to show the velvet lining, he started again on parade,indifferent to the glances of the vulgar.

As soon as the shops were lighted up and the dusk seemed to him blackenough, he went out into the square in front of the Palais-Royal, butas a man anxious not to be recognized; for he kept close under thehouses as far as the fountain, screened by the hackney-cab stand, tillhe reached the Rue Froid-Manteau, a dirty, poky, disreputable street--a sort of sewer tolerated by the police close to the purified purlieusof the Palais-Royal, as an Italian major-domo allows a carelessservant to leave the sweepings of the rooms in a corner of thestaircase.

The young man hesitated. He might have been a bedizened citizen's wifecraning her neck over a gutter swollen by the rain. But the hour wasnot unpropitious for the indulgence of some discreditable whim.Earlier, he might have been detected; later, he might find himself cutout. Tempted by a glance which is encouraging without being inviting,to have followed a young and pretty woman for an hour, or perhaps fora day, thinking of her as a divinity and excusing her light conduct bya thousand reasons to her advantage; to have allowed oneself tobelieve in a sudden and irresistible affinity; to have pictured, underthe promptings of transient excitement, a love-adventure in an agewhen romances are written precisely because they never happen; to havedreamed of balconies, guitars, stratagems, and bolts, enwrapped inAlmaviva's cloak; and, after inditing a poem in fancy, to stop at thedoor of a house of ill-fame, and, crowning all, to discern in Rosina'sbashfulness a reticence imposed by the police--is not all this, I say,an experience familiar to many a man who would not own it?

The most natural feelings are those we are least willing to confess,and among them is fatuity. When the lesson is carried no further, theParisian profits by it, or forgets it, and no great harm is done. Butthis would hardly be the case with this foreigner, who was beginningto think he might pay too dearly for his Paris education.

This personage was a Milanese of good family, exiled from his nativecountry, where some "liberal" pranks had made him an object ofsuspicion to the Austrian Government. Count Andrea Marcosini had beenwelcomed in Paris with the cordiality, essentially French, that a manalways finds there, when he has a pleasant wit, a sounding name, twohundred thousand francs a year, and a prepossessing person. To such aman banishment could but be a pleasure tour; his property was simplysequestrated, and his friends let him know that after an absence oftwo years he might return to his native land without danger.

After rhyming /crudeli affanni/ with /i miei tiranni/ in a dozen or soof sonnets, and maintaining as many hapless Italian refugees out ofhis own purse, Count Andrea, who was so unlucky as to be a poet,thought himself released from patriotic obligations. So, ever sincehis arrival, he had given himself up recklessly to the pleasures ofevery kind which Paris offers /gratis/ to those who can pay for them.His talents and his handsome person won him success among women, whomhe adored collectively as beseemed his years, but among whom he hadnot as yet distinguished a chosen one. And indeed this taste was, inhim, subordinate to those for music and poetry which he had cultivatedfrom his childhood; and he thought success in these both moredifficult and more glorious to achieve than in affairs of gallantry,since nature had not inflicted on him the obstacles men take mostpride in defying.

A man, like many another, of complex nature, he was easily fascinatedby the comfort of luxury, without which he could hardly have lived;and, in the same way, he clung to the social distinctions which hisprinciples contemned. Thus his theories as an artist, a thinker, and apoet were in frequent antagonism with his tastes, his feelings, andhis habits as a man of rank and wealth; but he comforted himself forhis inconsistencies by recognizing them in many Parisians, likehimself liberal by policy and aristocrats by nature.

Hence it was not without some uneasiness that he found himself, onDecember 31, 1830, under a Paris thaw, following at the heels of awoman whose dress betrayed the most abject, inveterate, and long-accustomed poverty, who was no handsomer than a hundred others to beseen any evening at the play, at the opera, in the world of fashion,and who was certainly not so young as Madame de Manerville, from whomhe had obtained an assignation for that very day, and who was perhapswaiting for him at that very hour.

But in the glance at once tender and wild, swift and deep, which thatwoman's black eyes had shot at him by stealth, there was such a worldof buried sorrows and promised joys! And she had colored so fiercelywhen, on coming out of a shop where she had lingered a quarter of anhour, her look frankly met the Count's, who had been waiting for herhard by! In fact, there were so many /buts/ and /ifs/, that, possessedby one of those mad temptations for which there is no word in anylanguage, not even in that of the orgy, he had set out in pursuit ofthis woman, hunting her down like a hardened Parisian.

On the way, whether he kept behind or ahead of this damsel, he studiedevery detail of her person and her dress, hoping to dislodge theinsane and ridiculous fancy that had taken up an abode in his brain;but he presently found in his examination a keener pleasure than hehad felt only the day before in gazing at the perfect shape of a womanhe loved, as she took her bath. Now and again, the unknown fair,bending her head, gave him a look like that of a kid tethered with itshead to the ground, and finding herself still the object of hispursuit, she hurried on as if to fly. Nevertheless, each time that ablock of carriages, or any other delay, brought Andrea to her side, hesaw her turn away from his gaze without any signs of annoyance. Thesesignals of restrained feelings spurred the frenzied dreams that hadrun away with him, and he gave them the rein as far as the Rue Froid-Manteau, down which, after many windings, the damsel vanished,thinking she had thus spoilt the scent of her pursuer, who was, infact, startled by this move.

It was now quite dark. Two women, tattooed with rouge, who weredrinking black-currant liqueur at a grocer's counter, saw the youngwoman and called her. She paused at the door of the shop, replied in afew soft words to the cordial greeting offered her, and went on herway. Andrea, who was behind her, saw her turn into one of the darkestyards out of this street, of which he did not know the name. Therepulsive appearance of the house where the heroine of his romance hadbeen swallowed up made him feel sick. He drew back a step to study theneighborhood, and finding an ill-looking man at his elbow, he askedhim for information. The man, who held a knotted stick in his righthand, placed the left on his hip and replied in a single word:

"Scoundrel!"

But on looking at the Italian, who stood in the light of a street-lamp, he assumed a servile expression.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, suddenly changing his tone. "Thereis a restaurant near this, a sort of table-d'hote, where the cookingis pretty bad and they serve cheese in the soup. Monsieur is in searchof the place, perhaps, for it is easy to see that he is an Italian--Italians are fond of velvet and of cheese. But if monsieur would liketo know of a better eating-house, an aunt of mine, who lives a fewsteps off, is very fond of foreigners."

Andrea raised his cloak as high as his moustache, and fled from thestreet, spurred by the disgust he felt at this foul person, whoseclothes and manner were in harmony with the squalid house into whichthe fair unknown had vanished. He returned with rapture to thethousand luxuries of his own rooms, and spent the evening at theMarquise d'Espard's to cleanse himself, if possible, of the smirchleft by the fancy that had driven him so relentlessly during the day.

And yet, when he was in bed, the vision came back to him, but clearerand brighter than the reality. The girl was walking in front of him;now and again as she stepped across a gutter her skirts revealed around calf; her shapely hips swayed as she walked. Again Andrea longedto speak to her--and he dared not, he, Marcosini, a Milanese nobleman!Then he saw her turn into the dark passage where she had eluded him,and blamed himself for not having followed her.

"For, after all," said he to himself, "if she really wished to avoidme and put me off her track, it is because she loves me. With women ofthat stamp, coyness is a proof of love. Well, if I had carried theadventure any further, it would, perhaps, have ended in disgust. Iwill sleep in peace."

The Count was in the habit of analyzing his keenest sensations, as mendo involuntarily when they have as much brains as heart, and he wassurprised when he saw the strange damsel of the Rue Froid-Manteau oncemore, not in the pictured splendor of his dream but in the barereality of dreary fact. And, in spite of it all, if fancy had strippedthe woman of her livery of misery, it would have spoilt her for him;for he wanted her, he longed for her, he loved her--with her muddystockings, her slipshod feet, her straw bonnet! He wanted her in thevery house where he had seen her go in.

"Am I bewitched by vice, then?" he asked himself in dismay. "Nay, Ihave not yet reached that point. I am but three-and-twenty, and thereis nothing of the senile fop about me."

The very vehemence of the whim that held possession of him to someextent reassured him. This strange struggle, these reflections, andthis love in pursuit may perhaps puzzle some persons who areaccustomed to the ways of Paris life; but they may be reminded thatCount Andrea Marcosini was not a Frenchman.

Brought up by two abbes, who, in obedience to a very pious father, hadrarely let him out of their sight, Andrea had not fallen in love witha cousin at the age of eleven, or seduced his mother's maid by thetime he was twelve; he had not studied at school, where a lad does notlearn only, or best, the subjects prescribed by the State; he hadlived in Paris but a few years, and he was still open to those suddenbut deep impressions against which French education and manners are sostrong a protection. In southern lands a great passion is often bornof a glance. A gentleman of Gascony who had tempered strong feelingsby much reflection had fortified himself by many little recipesagainst sudden apoplexies of taste and heart, and he advised the Countto indulge at least once a month in a wild orgy to avert those stormsof the soul which, but for such precautions, are apt to break out atinappropriate moments. Andrea now remembered this advice.

"Well," thought he, "I will begin to-morrow, January 1st."

This explains why Count Andrea Marcosini hovered so shyly beforeturning down the Rue Froid-Manteau. The man of fashion hampered thelover, and he hesitated for some time; but after a final appeal to hiscourage he went on with a firm step as far as the house, which herecognized without difficulty.

There he stopped once more. Was the woman really what he fancied her?Was he not on the verge of some false move?

At this juncture he remembered the Italian table d'hote, and at oncejumped at the middle course, which would serve the ends alike of hiscuriosity and of his reputation. He went in to dine, and made his waydown the passage; at the bottom, after feeling about for some time, hefound a staircase with damp, slippery steps, such as to an Italiannobleman could only seem a ladder.

Invited to the first floor by the glimmer of a lamp and a strong smellof cooking, he pushed a door which stood ajar and saw a room dingywith dirt and smoke, where a wench was busy laying a table for abouttwenty customers. None of the guests had yet arrived.

After looking round the dimly lighted room where the paper wasdropping in rags from the walls, the gentleman seated himself by astove which was roaring and smoking in the corner.

Attracted by the noise the Count made in coming in and disposing ofhis cloak, the major-domo presently appeared. Picture to yourself alean, dried-up cook, very tall, with a nose of extravagant dimensions,casting about him from time to time, with feverish keenness, a glancethat he meant to be cautious. On seeing Andrea, whose attire bespokeconsiderable affluence, Signor Giardini bowed respectfully.

The Count expressed his intention of taking his meals as a rule in thesociety of some of his fellow-countrymen; he paid in advance for acertain number of tickets, and ingenuously gave the conversation afamiliar bent to enable him to achieve his purpose quickly.

Hardly had he mentioned the woman he was seeking when Signor Giardini,with a grotesque shrug, looked knowingly at his customer, a blandsmile on his lips.

"/Basta/!" he exclaimed. "/Capisco/. Your Excellency has come spurredby two appetites. La Signora Gambara will not have wasted her time ifshe has gained the interest of a gentleman so generous as you appearto be. I can tell you in a few words all we know of the woman, who isreally to be pitied.

"The husband is, I believe, a native of Cremona and has just come herefrom Germany. He was hoping to get the Tedeschi to try some new musicand some new instruments. Isn't it pitiable?" said Giardini, shrugginghis shoulders. "Signor Gambara, who thinks himself a great composer,does not seem to me very clever in other ways. An excellent fellowwith some sense and wit, and sometimes very agreeable, especially whenhe has had a few glasses of wine--which does not often happen, for heis desperately poor; night and day he toils at imaginary symphoniesand operas instead of trying to earn an honest living. His poor wifeis reduced to working for all sorts of people--the women on thestreets! What is to be said? She loves her husband like a father, andtakes care of him like a child.

"Many a young man has dined here to pay his court to madame; but notone has succeeded," said he, emphasizing the word. "La SignoraMarianna is an honest woman, monsieur, much too honest, worse luck forher! Men give nothing for nothing nowadays. So the poor soul will diein harness.

"And do you suppose that her husband rewards her for her devotion?Pooh, my lord never gives her a smile! And all their cooking is doneat the baker's; for not only does the wretched man never earn a sou;he spends all his wife can make on instruments which he carves, andlengthens, and shortens, and sets up and takes to pieces again tillthey produce sounds that will scare a cat; then he is happy. And yetyou will find him the mildest, the gentlest of men. And, he is notidle; he is always at it. What is to be said? He is crazy and does notknow his business. I have seen him, monsieur, filing and forging hisinstruments and eating black bread with an appetite that I envied him--I, who have the best table in Paris.

"Yes, Excellenza, in a quarter of an hour you shall know the man I am.I have introduced certain refinements into Italian cookery that willamaze you! Excellenza, I am a Neapolitan--that is to say, a born cook.But of what use is instinct without knowledge? Knowledge! I have spentthirty years in acquiring it, and you see where it has left me. Myhistory is that of every man of talent. My attempts, my experiments,have ruined three restaurants in succession at Naples, Parma, andRome. To this day, when I am reduced to make a trade of my art, I moreoften than not give way to my ruling passion. I give these poorrefugees some of my choicest dishes. I ruin myself! Folly! you willsay? I know it; but how can I help it? Genius carries me away, and Icannot resist concocting a dish which smiles on my fancy.

"And they always know it, the rascals! They know, I can promise you,whether I or my wife has stood over the fire. And what is theconsequence? Of sixty-odd customers whom I used to see at my tableevery day when I first started in this wretched place, I now seetwenty on an average, and give them credit for the most part. ThePiedmontese, the Savoyards, have deserted, but the connoisseurs, thetrue Italians, remain. And there is no sacrifice that I would not makefor them. I often give them a dinner for five and twenty sous whichhas cost me double."

Signore Giardini's speech had such a full flavor of Neapolitan cunningthat the Count was delighted, and could have fancied himself atGerolamo's.

"Since that is the case, my good friend," said he familiarly to thecook, "and since chance and your confidence have let me into thesecret of your daily sacrifices, allow me to pay double."

As he spoke Andrea spun a forty-franc piece on the stove, out of whichGiardini solemnly gave him two francs and fifty centimes in change,not without a certain ceremonious mystery that amused him hugely.

"In a few minutes now," the man added, "you will see your /donnina/. Iwill seat you next the husband, and if you wish to stand in his goodgraces, talk about music. I have invited every one for the evening,poor things. Being New Year's Day, I am treating the company to a dishin which I believe I have surpassed myself."

Signor Giardini's voice was drowned by the noisy greetings of theguests, who streamed in two and two, or one at a time, after themanner of tables-d'hote. Giardini stayed by the Count, playing theshowman by telling him who the company were. He tried by hiswitticisms to bring a smile to the lips of a man who, as hisNeapolitan instinct told him, might be a wealthy patron to turn togood account.

"This one," said he, "is a poor composer who would like to rise fromsong-writing to opera, and cannot. He blames the managers, music-sellers,--everybody, in fact, but himself, and he has no worse enemy.You can see--what a florid complexion, what self-conceit, how littlefirmness in his features! he is made to write ballads. The man who iswith him and looks like a match-hawker, is a great music celebrity--Gigelmi, the greatest Italian conductor known; but he has gone deaf,and is ending his days in penury, deprived of all that made ittolerable. Ah! here comes our great Ottoboni, the most guileless oldfellow on earth; but he is suspected of being the most vindictive ofall who are plotting for the regeneration of Italy. I cannot think howthey can bear to banish such a good man."

And here Giardini looked narrowly at the Count, who, feeling himselfunder inquisition as to his politics, entrenched himself in Italianimpassibility.

"A man whose business it is to cook for all comers can have nopolitical opinions, Excellenza," Giardini went on. "But to see thatworthy man, who looks more like a lamb than a lion, everybody wouldsay what I say, were it before the Austrian ambassador himself.Besides, in these times liberty is no longer proscribed; it is goingits rounds again. At least, so these good people think," said he,leaning over to speak in the Count's ear, "and why should I thwarttheir hopes? I, for my part, do not hate an absolute government.Excellenza, every man of talent is for depotism!

"Well, though full of genius, Ottoboni takes no end of pains toeducate Italy; he writes little books to enlighten the intelligence ofthe children and the common people, and he smuggles them very cleverlyinto Italy. He takes immense trouble to reform the moral sense of ourluckless country, which, after all, prefers pleasure to freedom,--andperhaps it is right."

The Count preserved such an impenetrable attitude that the cook coulddiscover nothing of his political views.

"Ottoboni," he ran on, "is a saint; very kind-hearted; all therefugees are fond of him; for, Excellenza, a liberal may have hisvirtues. Oho! Here comes a journalist," said Giardini, as a man camein dressed in the absurd way which used to be attributed to a poet ina garret; his coat was threadbare, his boots split, his hat shiny, andhis overcoat deplorably ancient. "Excellenza, that poor man is full oftalent, and incorruptibly honest. He was born into the wrong times,for he tells the truth to everybody; no one can endure him. He writestheatrical articles for two small papers, though he is clever enoughto work for the great dailies. Poor fellow!

"The rest are not worth mentioning, and Your Excellency will find themout," he concluded, seeing that on the entrance of the musician's wifethe Count had ceased to listen to him.

On seeing Andrea here, Signora Marianna started visibly and a brightflush tinged her cheeks.

"Here he is!" said Giardini, in an undertone, clutching the Count'sarm and nodding to a tall man. "How pale and grave he is poor man! Hishobby has not trotted to his mind to-day, I fancy."

Andrea's prepossession for Marianna was crossed by the captivatingcharm which Gambara could not fail to exert over every genuine artist.The composer was now forty; but although his high brow was bald andlined with a few parallel, but not deep, wrinkles; in spite, too, ofhollow temples where the blue veins showed through the smooth,transparent skin, and of the deep sockets in which his black eyes weresunk, with their large lids and light lashes, the lower part of hisface made him still look young, so calm was its outline, so soft themodeling. It could be seen at a glance that in this man passion hadbeen curbed to the advantage of the intellect; that the brain alonehad grown old in some great struggle.

Andrea shot a swift look at Marianna, who was watching him. And henoted the beautiful Italian head, the exquisite proportion and richcoloring that revealed one of those organizations in which every humanpower is harmoniously balanced, he sounded the gulf that divided thiscouple, brought together by fate. Well content with the promise heinferred from this dissimilarity between the husband and wife, he madeno attempt to control a liking which ought to have raised a barrierbetween the fair Marianna and himself. He was already conscious offeeling a sort of respectful pity for this man, whose only joy shewas, as he understood the dignified and serene acceptance of illfortune that was expressed in Gambara's mild and melancholy gaze.

After expecting to see one of the grotesque figures so often setbefore us by German novelists and writers of /libretti/, he beheld asimple, unpretentious man, whose manners and demeanor were in nothingstrange and did not lack dignity. Without the faintest trace ofluxury, his dress was more decent than might have been expected fromhis extreme poverty, and his linen bore witness to the tender carewhich watched over every detail of his existence. Andrea looked atMarianna with moistened eyes; and she did not color, but half smiled,in a way that betrayed, perhaps, some pride at this speechless homage.The Count, too thoroughly fascinated to miss the smallest indicationof complaisance, fancied that she must love him, since she understoodhim so well.

From this moment he set himself to conquer the husband rather than thewife, turning all his batteries against the poor Gambara, who quiteguilelessly went on eating Signor Giardini's /bocconi/, withoutthinking of their flavor.

The Count opened the conversation on some trivial subject, but at thefirst words he perceived that this brain, supposed to be infatuated onone point, was remarkably clear on all others, and saw that it wouldbe far more important to enter into this very clever man's ideas thanto flatter his conceits.

The rest of the company, a hungry crew whose brain only responded tothe sight of a more or less good meal, showed much animosity to theluckless Gambara, and waited only till the end of the first course, togive free vent to their satire. A refugee, whose frequent leerbetrayed ambitious schemes on Marianna, and who fancied he couldestablish himself in her good graces by trying to make her husbandridiculous, opened fire to show the newcomer how the land lay at thetable-d'hote.

"It is a very long time since we have heard anything about the operaon 'Mahomet'!" cried he, with a smile at Marianna. "Can it be thatPaolo Gambara, wholly given up to domestic cares, absorbed by thecharms of the chimney-corner, is neglecting his superhuman genius,leaving his talents to get cold and his imagination to go flat?"

Gambara knew all the company; he dwelt in a sphere so far above themall that he no longer cared to repel an attack. He made no reply.

"It is not given to everybody," said the journalist, "to have anintellect that can understand Monsieur Gambara's musical efforts, andthat, no doubt, is why our divine maestro hesitates to come before theworthy Parisian public."

"And yet," said the ballad-monger, who had not opened his mouth but toswallow everything that came within his reach, "I know some men oftalent who think highly of the judgments of Parisian critics. I myselfhave a pretty reputation as a musician," he went on, with an air ofdiffidence. "I owe it solely to my little songs in /vaudevilles/, andthe success of my dance music in drawing-rooms; but I propose ere longto bring out a mass composed for the anniversary of Beethoven's death,and I expect to be better appreciated in Paris than anywhere else. Youwill perhaps do me the honor of hearing it?" he said, turning toAndrea.

"Thank you," said the Count. "But I do not conceive that I am giftedwith the organs needful for the appreciation of French music. If youwere dead, monsieur, and Beethoven had composed the mass, I would nothave failed to attend the performance."

This retort put an end to the tactics of those who wanted to setGambara off on his high horse to amuse the new guest. Andrea wasalready conscious of an unwillingness to expose so noble and pathetica mania as a spectacle for so much vulgar shrewdness. It was with nobase reservation that he kept up a desultory conversation, in thecourse of which Signor Giardini's nose not infrequently interposedbetween two remarks. Whenever Gambara uttered some elegant repartee orsome paradoxical aphorism, the cook put his head forward, to glancewith pity at the musician and with meaning at the Count, muttering inhis ear, "/E matto/!"

Then came a moment when the /chef/ interrupted the flow of hisjudicial observations to devote himself to the second course, which heconsidered highly important. During his absence, which was brief,Gambara leaned across to address Andrea.

"Our worthy host," said he, in an undertone, "threatens to regale usto-day with a dish of his own concocting, which I recommend you toavoid, though his wife has had an eye on him. The good man has a maniafor innovations. He ruined himself by experiments, the last of whichcompelled him to fly from Rome without a passport--a circumstance hedoes not talk about. After purchasing the good-will of a popularrestaurant he was trusted to prepare a banquet given by a lately madeCardinal, whose household was not yet complete. Giardini fancied hehad an opportunity for distinguishing himself--and he succeeded! forthat same evening he was accused of trying to poison the wholeconclave, and was obliged to leave Rome and Italy without waiting topack up. This disaster was the last straw. Now," and Gambara put hisfinger to his forehead and shook his head.

"He is a good fellow, all the same," he added. "My wife will tell youthat we owe him many a good turn."

Giardini now came in carefully bearing a dish which he set in themiddle of the table, and he then modestly resumed his seat next toAndrea, whom he served first. As soon as he had tasted the mess, theCount felt that an impassable gulf divided the second mouthful fromthe first. He was much embarrassed, and very anxious not to annoy thecook, who was watching him narrowly. Though a French /restaurateur/may care little about seeing a dish scorned if he is sure of beingpaid for it, it is not so with an Italian, who is not often satiatedwith praises.

To gain time, Andrea complimented Giardini enthusiastically, but heleaned over to whisper in his ear, and slipping a gold piece into hishand under the table, begged him to go out and buy a few bottles ofchampagne, leaving him free to take all the credit of the treat.

When the Italian returned, every plate was cleared, and the room rangwith praises of the master-cook. The champagne soon mounted thesesouthern brains, and the conversation, till now subdued in thestranger's presence, overleaped the limits of suspicious reserve towander far over the wide fields of political and artistic opinions.

Andrea, to whom no form of intoxication was known but those of loveand poetry, had soon gained the attention of the company and skilfullyled it to a discussion of matters musical.

"Will you tell me, monsieur," said he to the composer of dance-music,"how it is that the Napoleon of these tunes can condescend to usurpthe place of Palestrina, Pergolesi, and Mozart,--poor creatures whomust pack and vanish at the advent of that tremendous Mass for theDead?"

"Well, monsieur," replied the composer, "a musician always finds itdifficult to reply when the answer needs the cooperation of a hundredskilled executants. Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven, without an orchestrawould be of no great account."

"Of no great account!" said Marcosini. "Why, all the world knows thatthe immortal author of /Don Giovanni/ and the /Requiem/ was namedMozart; and I am so unhappy as not to know the name of theinexhaustible writer of quadrilles which are so popular in ourdrawing-rooms----"

"Music exists independently of execution," said the retired conductor,who, in spite of his deafness, had caught a few words of theconversation. "As he looks through the C-minor symphony by Beethoven,a musician is transported to the world of fancy on the golden wings ofthe subject in G-natural repeated by the horns in E. He sees a wholerealm, by turns glorious in dazzling shafts of light, gloomy underclouds of melancholy, and cheered by heavenly strains."

"The new school has left Beethoven far behind," said the ballad-writer, scornfully.

"Beethoven is not yet understood," said the Count. "How can he beexcelled?"

Gambara drank a large glass of champagne, accompanying the draught bya covert smile of approval.

"Beethoven," the Count went on, "extended the limits of instrumentalmusic, and no one followed in his track."

Gambara assented with a nod.

"His work is especially noteworthy for simplicity of construction andfor the way the scheme is worked out," the Count went on. "Mostcomposers make use of the orchestral parts in a vague, incoherent way,combining them for a merely temporary effect; they do not persistentlycontribute to the whole mass of the movement by their steady andregular progress. Beethoven assigns its part to each tone-quality fromthe first. Like the various companies which, by their disciplinedmovements, contribute to winning a battle, the orchestral parts of asymphony by Beethoven obey the plan ordered for the interest of all,and are subordinate to an admirably conceived scheme.

"In this he may be compared to a genius of a different type. In WalterScott's splendid historical novels, some personage, who seems to haveleast to do with the action of the story, intervenes at a given momentand leads up to the climax by some thread woven into the plot."

Andrea, eager to carry the test further, for a moment forgot all hispredilections; he proceeded to attack the European fame of Rossini,disputing the position which the Italian school has taken by storm,night after night for more than thirty years, on a hundred stages inEurope. He had undertaken a hard task. The first words he spoke raiseda strong murmur of disapproval; but neither the repeatedinterruptions, nor exclamations, nor frowns, nor contemptuous looks,could check this determined advocate of Beethoven.

"Compare," said he, "that sublime composer's works with what by commonconsent is called Italian music. What feebleness of ideas, whatlimpness of style! That monotony of form, those commonplace cadenzas,those endless bravura passages introduced at haphazard irrespective ofthe dramatic situation, that recurrent /crescendo/ that Rossinibrought into vogue, are now an integral part of every composition;those vocal fireworks result in a sort of babbling, chattering,vaporous mucic, of which the sole merit depends on the greater or lessfluency of the singer and his rapidity of vocalization.

"The Italian school has lost sight of the high mission of art. Insteadof elevating the crowd, it has condescended to the crowd; it has wonits success only by accepting the suffrages of all comers, andappealing to the vulgar minds which constitute the majority. Such asuccess is mere street juggling.

"In short, the compositions of Rossini, in whom this music ispersonified, with those of the writers who are more or less of hisschool, to me seem worthy at best to collect a crowd in the streetround a grinding organ, as an accompaniment to the capers of a puppetshow. I even prefer French music, and I can say no more. Long liveGerman music!" cried he, "when it is tuneful," he added to a lowvoice.

This sally was the upshot of a long preliminary discussion, in which,for more than a quarter of an hour, Andrea had divagated in the uppersphere of metaphysics, with the ease of a somnambulist walking overthe roofs.

Gambara, keenly interested in all this transcendentalism, had not losta word; he took up his parable as soon as Andrea seemed to have ended,and a little stir of revived attention was evident among the guests,of whom several had been about to leave.

"You attack the Italian school with much vigor," said Gambara,somewhat warmed to his work by the champagne, "and, for my part, youare very welcome. I, thank God, stand outside this more or lessmelodic frippery. Still, as a man of the world, you are too ungratefulto the classic land whence Germany and France derived their firstteaching. While the compositions of Carissimi, Cavalli, Scarlatti, andRossi were being played throughout Italy, the violin players of theParis opera house enjoyed the singular privilege of being allowed toplay in gloves. Lulli, who extended the realm of harmony, and was thefirst to classify discords, on arriving in France found but two men--acook and a mason--whose voice and intelligence were equal toperforming his music; he made a tenor of the former, and transformedthe latter into a bass. At that time Germany had no musician exceptingSebastian Bach.--But you, monsieur, though you are so young," Gambaraadded, in the humble tone of a man who expects to find his remarksreceived with scorn or ill-nature, "must have given much time to thestudy of these high matters of art; you could not otherwise explainthem so clearly."

This word made many of the hearers smile, for they had understoodnothing of the fine distinctions drawn by Andrea. Giardini, indeed,convinced that the Count had been talking mere rhodomontade, nudgedhim with a laugh in his sleeve, as at a good joke in which heflattered himself that he was a partner.

"There is a great deal that strikes me as very true in all you havesaid," Gambara went on; "but be careful. Your argument, whilereflecting on Italian sensuality, seems to me to lean towards Germanidealism, which is no less fatal heresy. If men of imagination andgood sense, like you, desert one camp only to join the other; if theycannot keep to the happy medium between two forms of extravagance, weshall always be exposed to the satire of the sophists, who deny allprogress, who compare the genius of man to this tablecloth, which,being too short to cover the whole of Signor Giardini's table, decksone end at the expense of the other."

Giardini bounded in his seat as if he had been stung by a horse-fly,but swift reflections restored him to his dignity as a host; he lookedup to heaven and again nudged the Count, who was beginning to thinkthe cook more crazy than Gambara.

This serious and pious way of speaking of art interested the Milaneseextremely. Seated between these two distracted brains, one so nobleand the other so common, and making game of each other to the greatentertainment of the crowd, there was a moment when the Count foundhimself wavering between the sublime and its parody, the farcicalextremes of human life. Ignoring the chain of incredible events whichhad brought them to this smoky den, he believed himself to be theplaything of some strange hallucination, and thought of Gambara andGiardini as two abstractions.

Meanwhile, after a last piece of buffoonery from the deaf conductor inreply to Gambara, the company had broken up laughing loudly. Giardiniwent off to make coffee, which he begged the select few to accept, andhis wife cleared the table. The Count, sitting near the stove betweenMarianna and Gambara, was in the very position which the mad musicianthought most desirable, with sensuousness on one side and idealism onthe other. Gambara finding himself for the first time in the societyof a man who did not laugh at him to his face, soon diverged fromgeneralities to talk of himself, of his life, his work, and themusical regeneration of which he believed himself to be the Messiah.

"Listen," said he, "you who so far have not insulted me. I will tellyou the story of my life; not to make a boast of my perseverance,which is no virtue of mine, but to the greater glory of Him who hasgiven me strength. You seem kind and pious; if you do not believe inme at least you will pity me. Pity is human; faith comes from God."

Andrea turned and drew back under his chair the foot that had beenseeking that of the fair Marianna, fixing his eyes on her whilelistening to Gambara.

"I was born at Cremona, the son of an instrument maker, a fairly goodperformer and an even better composer," the musician began. "Thus atan early age I had mastered the laws of musical construction in itstwofold aspects, the material and the spiritual; and as an inquisitivechild I observed many things which subsequently recurred to the mindof the full-grown man.

"The French turned us out of our own home--my father and me. We wereruined by the war. Thus, at the age of ten I entered on the wanderinglife to which most men have been condemned whose brains were busy withinnovations, whether in art, science, or politics. Fate, or theinstincts of their mind which cannot fit into the compartments wherethe trading class sit, providentially guides them to the spots wherethey may find teaching. Led by my passion for music I wanderedthroughout Italy from theatre to theatre, living on very little, asmen can live there. Sometimes I played the bass in an orchestra,sometimes I was on the boards in the chorus, sometimes under them withthe carpenters. Thus I learned every kind of musical effect, studyingthe tones of instruments and of the human voice, wherein they differedand how they harmonized, listening to the score and applying the rulestaught me by my father.

"It was hungry work, in a land where the sun always shines, where artis all pervading, but where there is no pay for the artist, since Romeis but nominally the Sovereign of the Christian world. Sometimes madewelcome, sometimes scouted for my poverty, I never lost courage. Iheard a voice within me promising me fame.

"Music seemed to me in its infancy, and I think so still. All that isleft to us of musical effort before the seventeenth century, proves tome that early musicians knew melody only; they were ignorant ofharmony and its immense resources. Music is at once a science and anart. It is rooted in physics and mathematics, hence it is a science;inspiration makes it an art, unconsciously utilizing the theorems ofscience. It is founded in physics by the very nature of the matter itworks on. Sound is air in motion. The air is formed of constituentswhich, in us, no doubt, meet with analogous elements that respond tothem, sympathize, and magnify them by the power of the mind. Thus theair must include a vast variety of molecules of various degrees ofelasticity, and capable of vibrating in as many different periods asthere are tones from all kinds of sonorous bodies; and thesemolecules, set in motion by the musician and falling on our ear,answer to our ideas, according to each man's temperament. I myselfbelieve that sound is identical in its nature with light. Sound islight, perceived under another form; each acts through vibrations towhich man is sensitive and which he transforms, in the nervouscentres, into ideas.

"Music, like painting, makes use of materials which have the propertyof liberating this or that property from the surrounding medium and sosuggesting an image. The instruments in music perform this part, ascolor does in painting. And whereas each sound produced by a sonorousbody is invariably allied with its major third and fifth, whereas itacts on grains of fine sand lying on stretched parchment so as todistribute them in geometrical figures that are always the same,according to the pitch,--quite regular when the combination is a truechord, and indefinite when the sounds are dissonant,--I say that musicis an art conceived in the very bowels of nature.

"Music is subject to physical and mathematical laws. Physical laws arebut little known, mathematics are well understood; and it is sincetheir relations have been studied, that the harmony has been createdto which we owe the works of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Rossini,grand geniuses, whose music is undoubtedly nearer to perfection thanthat of their precursors, though their genius, too, is unquestionable.The old masters could sing, but they had not art and science at theircommand,--a noble alliance which enables us to merge into one thefinest melody and the power of harmony.

"Now, if a knowledge of mathematical laws gave us these four greatmusicians, what may we not attain to if we can discover the physicallaws in virtue of which--grasp this clearly--we may collect, in largeror smaller quantities, according to the proportions we may require, anethereal substance diffused in the atmosphere which is the mediumalike of music and of light, of the phenomena of vegetation and ofanimal life! Do you follow me? Those new laws would arm the composerwith new powers by supplying him with instruments superior of thosenow in use, and perhaps with a potency of harmony immense as comparedwith that now at his command. If every modified shade of sound answersto a force, that must be known to enable us to combine all theseforces in accordance with their true laws.

"Composers work with substances of which they know nothing. Why shoulda brass and a wooden instrument--a bassoon and horn--have so littleidentity of tone, when they act on the same matter, the constituentgases of the air? Their differences proceed from some displacement ofthose constituents, from the way they act on the elements which aretheir affinity and which they return, modified by some occult andunknown process. If we knew what the process was, science and artwould both be gainers. Whatever extends science enhances art.

"Well, these are the discoveries I have guessed and made. Yes," saidGambara, with increasing vehemence, "hitherto men have noted effectsrather than causes. If they could but master the causes, music wouldbe the greatest of the arts. Is it not the one which strikes deepestto the soul? You see in painting no more than it shows you; in poetryyou have only what the poet says; music goes far beyond this. Does itnot form your taste, and rouse dormant memories? In a concert-roomthere may be a thousand souls; a strain is flung out from Pasta'sthroat, the execution worthily answering to the ideas that flashedthrough Rossini's mind as he wrote the air. That phrase of Rossini's,transmitted to those attentive souls, is worked out in so manydifferent poems. To one it presents a woman long dreamed of; toanother, some distant shore where he wandered long ago. It rises upbefore him with its drooping willows, its clear waters, and the hopesthat then played under its leafy arbors. One woman is reminded of themyriad feelings that tortured her during an hour of jealousy, whileanother thinks of the unsatisfied cravings of her heart, and paints inthe glowing hues of a dream an ideal lover, to whom she abandonsherself with the rapture of the woman in the Roman mosaic who embracesa chimera; yet a third is thinking that this very evening some hoped-for joy is to be hers, and rushes by anticipation into the tide ofhappiness, its dashing waves breaking against her burning bosom. Musicalone has this power of throwing us back on ourselves; the other artsgive us infinite pleasure. But I am digressing.

"These were my first ideas, vague indeed; for an inventor at thebeginning only catches glimpses of the dawn, as it were. So I keptthese glorious ideas at the bottom of my knapsack, and they gave mespirit to eat the dry crust I often dipped in the water of a spring. Iworked, I composed airs, and, after playing them on any instrumentthat came to hand, I went off again on foot across Italy. Finally, atthe age of two-and-twenty, I settled in Venice, where for the firsttime I enjoyed rest and found myself in a decent position. I theremade the acquaintance of a Venetian nobleman who liked my ideas, whoencouraged me in my investigations, and who got me employment at theVenice theatre.

"Living was cheap, lodging inexpensive. I had a room in that Capellopalace from which the famous Bianca came forth one evening to become aGrand Duchess of Tuscany. And I would dream that my unrecognized famewould also emerge from thence one day to be crowned.

"I spent my evenings at the theatre and my days in work. Then camedisaster. The performance of an opera in which I had experimented,trying my music, was a failure. No one understood my score for the/Martiri/. Set Beethoven before the Italians and they are out of theirdepth. No one had patience enough to wait for the effect to beproduced by the different motives given out by each instrument, whichwere all at last to combine in a grand /ensemble/.

"I had built some hopes on the success of the /Martiri/, for wevotaries of the blue divinity Hope always discount results. When a manbelieves himself destined to do great things, it is hard not to fancythem achieved; the bushel always has some cracks through which thelight shines.

"My wife's family lodged in the same house, and the hope of winningMarianna, who often smiled at me from her window, had done much toencourage my efforts. I now fell into the deepest melancholy as Isounded the depths of a life of poverty, a perpetual struggle in whichlove must die. Marianna acted as genius does; she jumped across everyobstacle, both feet at once. I will not speak of the little happinesswhich shed its gilding on the beginning of my misfortunes. Dismayed atmy failure, I decided that Italy was not intelligent enough and toomuch sunk in the dull round of routine to accept the innovations Iconceived of; so I thought of going to Germany.

"I traveled thither by way of Hungary, listening to the myriad voicesof nature, and trying to reproduce that sublime harmony by the help ofinstruments which I constructed or altered for the purpose. Theseexperiments involved me in vast expenses which had soon exhausted mysavings. And yet those were our golden days. In Germany I wasappreciated. There has been nothing in my life more glorious than thattime. I can think of nothing to compare with the vehement joys I foundby the side of Marianna, whose beauty was then of really heavenlyradiance and splendor. In short, I was happy.

"During that period of weakness I more than once expressed my passionin the language of earthly harmony. I even wrote some of those airs,just like geometrical patterns, which are so much admired in the worldof fashion that you move in. But as soon as I made a little way I metwith insuperable obstacles raised by my rivals, all hypercritical orunappreciative.

"I had heard of France as being a country where novelties werefavorably received, and I wanted to get there; my wife had a littlemoney and we came to Paris. Till then no one had actually laughed inmy face; but in this dreadful city I had to endure that new form oftorture, to which abject poverty ere long added its bitter sufferings.Reduced to lodging in this mephitic quarter, for many months we havelived exclusively on Marianna's sewing, she having found employmentfor her needle in working for the unhappy prostitutes who make thisstreet their hunting ground. Marianna assures me that among those poorcreatures she has met with such consideration and generosity as I, formy part, ascribe to the ascendency of virtue so pure that even vice iscompelled to respect it."

"Hope on," said Andrea. "Perhaps you have reached the end of yourtrials. And while waiting for the time when my endeavor, secondingyours, shall set your labors in a true light, allow me, as a fellow-countryman and an artist like yourself, to offer you some littleadvances on the undoubted success of your score."

"All that has to do with matters of material existence I leave to mywife," replied Gambara. "She will decide as to what we may acceptwithout a blush from so thorough a gentleman as you seem to be. For mypart,--and it is long since I have allowed myself to indulge such fullconfidences,--I must now ask you to allow me to leave you. I see amelody beckoning to me, dancing and floating before me, bare andquivering, like a girl entreating her lover for her clothes which hehas hidden. Good-night. I must go and dress my mistress. My wife Ileave with you."

He hurried away, as a man who blames himself for the loss of valuabletime; and Marianna, somewhat embarrassed, prepared to follow him.

Andrea dared not detain her.

Giardini came to the rescue.

"But you heard, signora," said he. "Your husband has left you tosettle some little matters with the Signor Conte."

Marianna sat down again, but without raising her eyes to Andrea, whohesitated before speaking.

"And will not Signor Gambara's confidence entitle me to his wife's?"he said in agitated tones. "Can the fair Marianna refuse to tell methe story of her life?"

"My life!" said Marianna. "It is the life of the ivy. If you wish toknow the story of my heart, you must suppose me equally destitute ofpride and of modesty if you can ask me to tell it after what you havejust heard."

"Of whom, then, can I ask it?" cried the Count, in whom passion wasblinding his wits.

"Of yourself," replied Marianna. "Either you understand me by thistime, or you never will. Try to ask yourself."

"I will, but you must listen. And this hand, which I am holding, is tolie in mine as long as my narrative is truthful."

"I am listening," said Marianna.

"A woman's life begins with her first passion," said Andrea. "And mydear Marianna began to live only on the day when she first saw PaoloGambara. She needed some deep passion to feed upon, and, above all,some interesting weakness to shelter and uphold. The beautiful woman'snature with which she is endowed is perhaps not so truly passion asmaternal love.

"You sigh, Marianna? I have touched one of the aching wounds in yourheart. It was a noble part for you to play, so young as you were,--that of protectress to a noble but wandering intellect. You said toyourself: 'Paolo will be my genius; I shall be his common sense;between us we shall be that almost divine being called an angel,--thesublime creature that enjoys and understands, reason never stiflinglove.'

"And then, in the first impetus of youth, you heard the thousandvoices of nature which the poet longed to reproduce. Enthusiasmclutched you when Paolo spread before you the treasures of poetry,while seeking to embody them in the sublime but restricted language ofmusic; you admired him when delirious rapture carried him up and awayfrom you, for you liked to believe that all this devious energy wouldat last come down and alight as love. But you knew not the tyrannousand jealous despotism of the ideal over the minds that fall in lovewith it. Gambara, before meeting you, had given himself over to thehaughty and overbearing mistress, with whom you have struggled for himto this day.

"Once, for an instant, you had a vision of happiness. Paolo, tumblingfrom the lofty sphere where his spirit was constantly soaring, wasamazed to find reality so sweet; you fancied that his madness would belulled in the arms of love. But before long Music again clutched herprey. The dazzling mirage which had cheated you into the joys ofreciprocal love made the lonely path on which you had started lookmore desolate and barren.

"In the tale your husband has just told me, I could read, as plainlyas in the contrast between your looks and his, all the painful secretsof that ill-assorted union, in which you have accepted the sufferer'spart. Though your conduct has been unfailingly heroical, though yourfirmness has never once given way in the exercise of your painfulduties, perhaps, in the silence of lonely nights, the heart that atthis moment is beating so wildly in your breast, may, from time totime, have rebelled. Your husband's superiority was in itself yourworst torment. If he had been less noble, less single-minded, youmight have deserted him; but his virtues upheld yours; you wondered,perhaps, whether his heroism or your own would be the first to giveway.

"You clung to your really magnanimous task as Paolo clung to hischimera. If you had had nothing but a devotion to duty to guide andsustain you, triumph might have seemed easier; you would only have hadto crush your heart, and transfer your life into the world ofabstractions; religion would have absorbed all else, and you wouldhave lived for an idea, like those saintly women who kill all theinstincts of nature at the foot of the altar. But the all-pervadingcharm of Paolo, the loftiness of his mind, his rare and touchingproofs of tenderness, constantly drag you down from that ideal realmwhere virtue would fain maintain you; they perennially revive in youthe energies you have exhausted in contending with the phantom oflove. You never suspected this! The faintest glimmer of hope led youon in pursuit of the sweet vision.

"At last the disappointments of many years have undermined yourpatience,--an angel would have lost it long since,--and now theapparition so long pursued is no more than a shade without substance.Madness that is so nearly allied to genius can know no cure in thisworld. When this thought first struck you, you looked back on yourpast youth, sacrificed, if not wasted; you then bitterly discerned theblunder of nature that had given you a father when you looked for ahusband. You asked yourself whether you had not gone beyond the dutyof a wife in keeping yourself wholly for a man who was bound up in hisscience. Marianna, leave your hand in mine; all I have said is true.And you looked about you--but now you were in Paris, not in Italy,where men know how to love----"

"Oh! Let me finish the tale," cried Marianna. "I would rather saythings myself. I will be honest; I feel that I am speaking to mytruest friend. Yes, I was in Paris when all you have expressed soclearly took place in my mind; but when I saw you I was saved, for Ihad never met with the love I had dreamed of from my childhood. Mypoor dress and my dwelling-place had hidden me from the eyes of men ofyour class. A few young men, whose position did not allow of theirinsulting me, were all the more intolerable for the levity with whichthey treated me. Some made game of my husband, as if he were merely aridiculous old man; others basely tried to win his good graces tobetray me; one and all talked of getting me away from him, and noneunderstood the devotion I feel for a soul that is so far away from usonly because it is so near heaven, for that friend, that brother,whose handmaid I will always be.

"You alone understood, did you not? the tie that binds me to him. Tellme that you feel a sincere and disinterested regard for my Paolo--"

"I gladly accept your praises," Andrea interrupted; "but go nofurther; do not compel me to contradict you. I love you, Marianna, aswe love in the beautiful country where we both were born, I love youwith all my soul and with all my strength; but before offering youthat love, I will be worthy of yours. I will make a last attempt togive back to you the man you have loved so long and will love forever.Till success or defeat is certain, accept without any shame the modestease I can give you both. We will go to-morrow and choose a placewhere he may live.

"Have you such regard for me as will allow you to make me the partnerin your guardianship?"

Marianna, surprised at such magnanimity, held out her hand to theCount, who went away, trying to evade the civilities of Giardini andhis wife.

On the following day Giardini took the Count up to the room where theGambaras lodged. Though Marianna fully knew her lover's noble soul,--for there are natures which quickly enter into each other's spirit,--Marianna was too good a housewife not to betray her annoyance atreceiving such a fine gentleman in so humble a room. Everything wasexquisitely clean. She had spent the morning in dusting her motleyfurniture, the handiwork of Signor Giardini, who had put it together,at odd moments of leisure, out of the fragments of the instrumentsrejected by Gambara.

Andrea had never seen anything quite so crazy. To keep a decentcountenance he turned away from a grotesque bed, contrived by theingenious cook in the case of an old harpsichord, and looked atMarianna's narrow couch, of which the single mattress was covered witha white muslin counterpane, a circumstance that gave rise in his mindto some sad but sweet thoughts.

He wished to speak of his plans and of his morning's work; butGambara, in his enthusiasm, believing that he had at last met with awilling listener, took possession of him, and compelled him to listento the opera he had written for Paris.

"In the first place, monsieur," said the composer, "allow me toexplain the subject in a few words. Here, the hearers receiving amusical impression do not work it out in themselves, as religion bidsus work out the texts of Scripture in prayer. Hence it is verydifficult to make them understand that there is in nature an eternalmelody, exquisitely sweet, a perfect harmony, disturbed only byrevolutions independent of the divine will, as passions areuncontrolled by the will of men.

"I, therefore, had to seek a vast framework in which effect and causemight both be included; for the aim of my music is to give a pictureof the life of nations from the loftiest point of view. My opera, forwhich I myself wrote the /libretto/, for a poet would never have fullydeveloped the subject, is the life of Mahomet,--a figure in whom themagic of Sabaeanism combined with the Oriental poetry of the HebrewScriptures to result in one of the greatest human epics, the Arabdominion. Mahomet certainly derived from the Hebrews the idea of adespotic government, and from the religion of the shepherd tribes orSabaeans the spirit of expansion which created the splendid empire ofthe Khalifs. His destiny was stamped on him in his birth, for hisfather was a heathen and his mother a Jewess. Ah! my dear Count to bea great musician a man must be very learned. Without knowledge he canget no local color and put no ideas into his music. The composer whosings for singing's sake is an artisan, not an artist.

"This magnificent opera is the continuation of the great work Iprojected. My first opera was called /The Martyrs/, and I intend towrite a third on Jerusalem delivered. You perceive the beauty of thistrilogy and what a variety of motives it offers,--the Martyrs,Mahomet, the Deliverance of Jerusalem: the God of the West, the God ofthe East, and the struggle of their worshipers over a tomb. But wewill not dwell on my fame, now for ever lost.

"This is the argument of my opera." He paused. "The first act," hewent on, "shows Mahomet as a porter to Kadijah, a rich widow with whomhis uncle placed him. He is in love and ambitious. Driven from Mecca,he escapes to Medina, and dates his era from his flight, the /Hegira/.In the second act he is a Prophet, founding a militant religion. Inthe third, disgusted with all things, having exhausted life, Mahometconceals the manner of his death in the hope of being regarded as agod,--last effort of human pride.

"Now you shall judge of my way of expressing in sound a great idea,for which poetry could find no adequate expression in words."

Gambara sat down to the piano with an absorbed gaze, and his wifebrought him the mass of papers forming his score; but he did not openthem.

"The whole opera," said he, "is founded on a bass, as on a fruitfulsoil. Mahomet was to have a majestic bass voice, and his wifenecessarily had a contralto. Kadijah was quite old--twenty! Attention!This is the overture. It begins with an /andante/ in C major, tripletime. Do you hear the sadness of the ambitious man who is notsatisfied with love? Then, through his lamentation, by a transition tothe key of E flat, /allegro/, common time, we hear the cries of theepileptic lover, his fury and certain warlike phrases, for the mightycharms of the one and only woman give him the impulse to multipliedloves which strikes us in /Don Giovanni/. Now, as you hear thesethemes, do you not catch a glimpse of Mahomet's Paradise?

"And next we have a /cantabile/ (A flat major, six-eight time), thatmight expand the soul that is least susceptible to music. Kadijah hasunderstood Mahomet! Then Kadijah announces to the populace theProphet's interviews with the Angel Gabriel (/maestoso sostenuto/ in FMajor). The magistrates and priests, power and religion, feelingthemselves attacked by the innovator, as Christ and Socrates alsoattacked effete or worn-out powers and religions, persecute Mahometand drive him out of Mecca (/stretto/ in C major). Then comes mybeautiful dominant (G major, common time). Arabia now harkens to theProphet; horsemen arrive (G major, E flat, B flat, G minor, and stillcommon time). The mass of men gathers like an avalanche; the falseProphet has begun on a tribe the work he will achieve over a world (Gmajor).

"He promises the Arabs universal dominion, and they believe himbecause he is inspired. The /crescendo/ begins (still in thedominant). Here come some flourishes (in C major) from the brass,founded on the harmony, but strongly marked, and asserting themselvesas an expression of the first triumphs. Medina has gone over to theProphet, and the whole army marches on Mecca (an explosion of sound inC major). The whole power of the orchestra is worked up like aconflagration; every instrument is employed; it is a torrent ofharmony.

"Suddenly the /tutti/ is interrupted by a flowing air (on the minorthird). You hear the last strain of devoted love. The woman who hadupheld the great man dies concealing her despair, dies at the momentof triumph for him in whom love has become too overbearing to becontent with one woman; and she worships him enough to sacrificeherself to the greatness of the man who is killing her. What a blazeof love!

"Then the Desert rises to overrun the world (back to C major). Thewhole strength of the orchestra comes in again, collected in atremendous quintet grounded on the fundamental bass--and he is dying!Mahomet is world-weary; he has exhausted everything. Now he craves todie a god. Arabia, in fact, worships and prays to him, and we returnto the first melancholy strain (C minor) to which the curtain rose.

"Now, do you not discern," said Gambara, ceasing to play, and turningto the Count, "in this picturesque and vivid music--abrupt, grotesque,or melancholy, but always grand--the complete expression of the lifeof an epileptic, mad for enjoyment, unable to read or write, using allhis defects as stepping-stones, turning every blunder and disasterinto a triumph? Did not you feel a sense of his fascination exertedover a greedy and lustful race, in this overture, which is an epitomeof the opera?"

At first calm and stern, the maestro's face, in which Andrea had beentrying to read the ideas he was uttering in inspired tones, though thechaotic flood of notes afforded no clue to them, had by degrees glowedwith fire and assumed an impassioned force that infected Marianna andthe cook. Marianna, too, deeply affected by certain passages in whichshe recognized a picture of her own position, could not conceal theexpression of her eyes from Andrea.

Gambara wiped his brow, and shot a glance at the ceiling of suchfierce energy that he seemed to pierce it and soar to the very skies.

"You have seen the vestibule," said he; "we will now enter the palace.The opera begins:--

"Act I. Mahomet, alone on the stage, begins with an air (F natural,common time), interrupted by a chorus of camel-drivers gathered rounda well at the back of the stage (they sing in contrary time--twelve-eight). What majestic woe! It will appeal to the most frivolous women,piercing to their inmost nerves if they have no heart. Is not this thevery expression of crushed genius?"

To Andrea's great astonishment,--for Marianna was accustomed to it,--Gambara contracted his larynx to such a pitch that the only sound wasa stifled cry not unlike the bark of a watch-dog that has lost itsvoice. A slight foam came to the composer's lips and made Andreashudder.

"His wife appears (A minor). Such a magnificent duet! In this number Ihave shown that Mahomet has the will and his wife the brains. Kadijahannounces that she is about to devote herself to an enterprise thatwill rob her of her young husband's love. Mahomet means to conquer theworld; this his wife has guessed, and she supports him by persuadingthe people of Mecca that her husband's attacks of epilepsy are theeffect of his intercourse with the angels (chorus of the firstfollowers of Mahomet, who come to promise him their aid, C sharpminor, /sotto voce/). Mahomet goes off to seek the Angel Gabriel(/recitative/ in F major). His wife encourages the disciples (/aria/,interrupted by the chorus, gusts of chanting support Kadijah's broadand majestic air, A major).

"Abdallah, the father of Ayesha,--the only maiden Mahomet has foundreally innocent, wherefore he changed the name of Abdallah to Abubekir(the father of the virgin),--comes forward with Ayesha and singsagainst the chorus, in strains which rise above the other voices andsupplement the air sung by Kadijah in contrapuntal treatment. Omar,the father of another maiden who is to be Mahomet's concubine, followsAbubekir's example; he and his daughter join in to form a quintette.The girl Ayesha is first soprano, Hafsa second soprano; Abubekir is abass, Omar a baritone.

"Mahomet returns, inspired. He sings his first /bravura/ air, thebeginning of the /finale/ (E major), promising the empire of the worldto those who believe in him. The Prophet seeing the two damsels, then,by a gentle transition (from B major to G major), addresses them inamorous tones. Ali, Mahomet's cousin, and Khaled, his greatestgeneral, both tenors, now arrive and announce the persecution; themagistrates, the military, and the authorities have all proscribed theProphet (/recitative/). Mahomet declares in an invocation (in C) thatthe Angel Gabriel is on his side, and points to a pigeon that is seenflying away. The chorus of believers responds in accents of devotion(on a modulation to B major). The soldiers, magistrates, and officialsthen come on (/tempo di marcia/, common time, B major). A chorus intwo divisions (/stretto/ in E major). Mahomet yields to the storm (ina descending phrase of diminished sevenths) and makes his escape. Thefierce and gloomy tone of this /finale/ is relieved by the phrasesgiven to the three women who foretell Mahomet's triumph, and thesemotives are further developed in the third act in the scene whereMahomet is enjoying his splendor."

The tears rose to Gambara's eyes, and it was only upon controlling hisemotion that he went on.

"Act II. The religion is now established. The Arabs are guarding theProphet's tent while he speaks with God (chorus in A minor). Mahometappears (a prayer in F). What a majestic and noble strain is this thatforms the bass of the voices, in which I have perhaps enlarged theborders of melody. It was needful to express the wonderful energy ofthis great human movement which created an architecture, a music, apoetry of its own, a costume and manners. As you listen, you arewalking under the arcades of the Generalife, the carved vaults of theAlhambra. The runs and trills depict that delicate mauresquedecoration, and the gallant and valorous religion which was destinedto wage war against the gallant and valorous chivalry of Christendom.A few brass instruments awake in the orchestra, announcing theProphet's first triumph (in a broken /cadenza/). The Arabs adore theProphet (E flat major), and the Khaled, Amru, and Ali arrive (/tempodi marcia/). The armies of the faithful have taken many towns andsubjugated the three Arabias. Such a grand recitative!--Mahometrewards his generals by presenting them with maidens.

"And here," said Gambara, sadly, "there is one of those wretchedballets, which interrupt the thread of the finest musical tragedies!But Mahomet elevates it once more by his great prophetic scene, whichpoor Monsieur Voltaire begins with these words:

"Arabia's time at last has come!

"He is interrupted by a chorus of triumphant Arabs (twelve-eight time,/accelerando/). The tribes arrive in crowds; the horns and brassreappear in the orchestra. General rejoicings ensue, all the voicesjoining in by degrees, and Mahomet announces polygamy. In the midst ofall this triumph, the woman who has been of such faithful service toMahomet sings a magnificent air (in B major). 'And I,' says she, 'am Ino longer loved?' 'We must part. Thou art but a woman, and I am aProphet; I may still have slaves but no equal.' Just listen to thisduet (G sharp minor). What anguish! The woman understands thegreatness her hands have built up; she loves Mahomet well enough tosacrifice herself to his glory; she worships him as a god, withoutcriticising him,--without murmuring. Poor woman! His first dupe andhis first victim!

"What a subject for the /finale/ (in B major) is her grief, broughtout in such sombre hues against the acclamations of the chorus, andmingling with Mahomet's tones as he throws his wife aside as a tool ofno further use, still showing her that he can never forget her! Whatfireworks of triumph! what a rush of glad and rippling song go up fromthe two young voices (first and second soprano) of Ayesha and Hafsa,supported by Ali and his wife, by Omar and Abubekir! Weep!--rejoice!--Triumph and tears! Such is life."

Marianna could not control her tears, and Andrea was so deeply movedthat his eyes were moist. The Neapolitan cook was startled by themagnetic influence of the ideas expressed by Gambara's convulsiveaccents.

The composer looked round, saw the group, and smiled.

"At last you understand me!" said he.

No conqueror, led in pomp to the Capitol under the purple beams ofglory, as the crown was placed on his head amid the acclamations of anation, ever wore such an expression. The composer's face was radiant,like that of a holy martyr. No one dispelled the error. A terriblesmile parted Marianna's lips. The Count was appalled by theguilelessness of this mania.

"Act III," said the enchanted musician, reseating himself at thepiano. "(/Andantino, solo/.) Mahomet in his seraglio, surrounded bywomen, but not happy. Quartette of Houris (A major). What pompousharmony, what trills as of ecstatic nightingales! Modulation (into Fsharp minor). The theme is stated (on the dominant E and repeated in Fmajor). Here every delight is grouped and expressed to give effect tothe contrast of the gloomy /finale/ of the first act. After thedancing, Mahomet rises and sings a grand /bravura/ air (in F minor),repelling the perfect and devoted love of his first wife, butconfessing himself conquered by polygamy. Never has a musician had sofine a subject! The orchestra and the chorus of female voices expressthe joys of the Houris, while Mahomet reverts to the melancholy strainof the opening. Where is Beethoven," cried Gambara, "to appreciatethis prodigious reaction of my opera on itself? How completely it allrests on the bass.

"It is thus that Beethoven composed his E minor symphony. But hisheroic work is purely instrumental, whereas here, my heroic phrase isworked out on a sextette of the finest human voices, and a chorus ofthe faithful on guard at the door of the sacred dwelling. I have everyresource of melody and harmony at my command, an orchestra and voices.Listen to the utterance of all these phases of human life, rich andpoor;--battle, triumph, and exhaustion!

"Ali arrives, the Koran prevails in every province (duet in D minor).Mahomet places himself in the hands of his two fathers-in-law; he willabdicate his rule and die in retirement to consolidate his work. Amagnificent sextette (B flat major). He takes leave of all (solo in Fnatural). His two fathers-in-law, constituted his vicars or Khalifs,appeal to the people. A great triumphal march, and a prayer by all theArabs kneeling before the sacred house, the Kasbah, from which apigeon is seen to fly away (the same key). This prayer, sung by sixtyvoices and led by the women (in B flat), crowns the stupendous workexpressive of the life of nations and of man. Here you have everyemotion, human and divine."

Andrea gazed at Gambara in blank amazement. Though at first he hadbeen struck by the terrible irony of the situation,--this manexpressing the feelings of Mahomet's wife without discovering them inMarianna,--the husband's hallucination was as nothing compared withthe composer's. There was no hint even of a poetical or musical ideain the hideous cacophony with which he had deluged their ears; thefirst principles of harmony, the most elementary rules of composition,were absolutely alien to this chaotic structure. Instead of thescientifically compacted music which Gambara described, his fingersproduced sequences of fifths, sevenths, and octaves, of major thirds,progressions of fourths with no supporting bass,--a medley ofdiscordant sounds struck out haphazard in such a way as to beexcruciating to the least sensitive ear. It is difficult to give anyidea of the grotesque performance. New words would be needed todescribe this impossible music.

Andrea, painfully affected by this worthy man's madness, colored, andstole a glance at Marianna; while she, turning pale and looking down,could not restrain her tears. In the midst of this chaos of notes,Gambara had every now and then given vent to his rapture inexclamations of delight. He had closed his eyes in ecstasy; had smiledat his piano; had looked at it with a frown; put out his tongue at itafter the fashion of the inspired performer,--in short, was quiteintoxicated with the poetry that filled his brain, and that he hadvainly striven to utter. The strange discords that clashed under hisfingers had obviously sounded in his ears like celestial harmonies.

A deaf man, seeing the inspired gaze of his blue eyes open on anotherworld, the rosy glow that tinged his cheeks, and, above all, theheavenly serenity which ecstasy stamped on his proud and noblecountenance, would have supposed that he was looking on at theimprovisation of a really great artist. The illusion would have beenall the more natural because the performance of this mad musicrequired immense executive skill to achieve such fingering. Gambaramust have worked at it for years.

Nor were his hands alone employed; his feet were constantly at workwith complicated pedaling; his body swayed to and fro; theperspiration poured down his face while he toiled to produce a great/crescendo/ with the feeble means the thankless instrument placed athis command. He stamped, puffed, shouted; his fingers were as swift asthe serpent's double tongue; and finally, at the last crash on thekeys, he fell back in his chair, resting his head on the top of it.

"/Per Bacco!/ I am quite stunned," said the Count as he left thehouse. "A child dancing on the keyboard would make better music."

"Certainly mere chance could not more successfully avoid hitting twonotes in concord than that possessed creature has done during the pasthour," said Giardini.

"How is it that the regular beauty of Marianna's features is notspoiled by incessantly hearing such a hideous medley?" said the Countto himself. "Marianna will certainly grow ugly."

"Signor, she must be saved from that," cried Giardini.

"Yes," said Andrea. "I have thought of that. Still, to be sure that myplans are not based on error, I must confirm my doubts by anotherexperiment. I will return and examine the instruments he has invented.To-morrow, after dinner, we will have a little supper. I will send insome wine and little dishes."

The cook bowed.

Andrea spent the following day in superintending the arrangement ofthe rooms where he meant to install the artist in a humble home.

In the evening the Count made his appearance, and found the wine,according to his instructions, set out with some care by Marianna andGiardini. Gambara proudly exhibited the little drums, on which lay thepowder by means of which he made his observations on the pitch andquality of the sounds emitted by his instruments.

"You see," said he, "by what simple means I can prove the mostimportant propositions. Acoustics thus can show me the analogouseffects of sound on every object of its impact. All harmonies startfrom a common centre and preserve the closest relations amongthemselves; or rather, harmony, like light, is decomposable by our artas a ray is by a prism."

He then displayed the instruments constructed in accordance with hislaws, explaining the changes he had introduced into theirconstitution. And finally he announced that to conclude thispreliminary inspection, which could only satisfy a superficialcuriosity, he would perform on an instrument that contained all theelements of a complete orchestra, and which he called a/Panharmonicon/.

"If it is the machine in that huge case, which brings down on us thecomplaints of the neighborhood whenever you work at it, you will notplay on it long," said Giardini. "The police will interfere. Rememberthat!"

"If that poor idiot stays in the room," said Gambara in a whisper tothe Count, "I cannot possibly play."

Andrea dismissed the cook, promising a handsome reward if he wouldkeep watch outside and hinder the neighbors or the police frominterfering. Giardini, who had not stinted himself while helpingGambara to wine, was quite willing.

Gambara, without being drunk, was in the condition when every power ofthe brain is over-wrought; when the walls of the room are transparent;when the garret has no roof, and the soul soars in the empyrean ofspirits.

Marianna, with some little difficulty, removed the covers from aninstrument as large as a grand piano, but with an upper case added.This strange-looking instrument, besides this second body and itskeyboard, supported the openings or bells of various wind instrumentsand the closed funnels of a few organ pipes.

"Will you play me the prayer you say is so fine at the end of youropera?" said the Count.

To the great surprise of both Marianna and the Count, Gambara beganwith a succession of chords that proclaimed him a master; and theirastonishment gave way first to amazed admiration and then to perfectrapture, effacing all thought of the place and the performer. Theeffects of a real orchestra could not have been finer than the voicesof the wind instruments, which were like those of an organ andcombined wonderfully with the harmonies of the strings. But theunfinished condition of the machine set limits to the composer'sexecution, and his idea seemed all the greater; for, often, the veryperfection of a work of art limits its suggestiveness to the recipientsoul. Is not this proved by the preference accorded to a sketch ratherthan a finished picture when on their trial before those who interpreta work in their own mind rather than accept it rounded off andcomplete?

The purest and serenest music that Andrea had ever listened to rose upfrom under Gambara's fingers like the vapor of incense from an altar.The composer's voice grew young again, and, far from marring the noblemelody, it elucidated it, supported it, guided it,--just as the feebleand quavering voice of an accomplished reader, such as Andrieux, forinstance, can expand the meaning of some great scene by Corneille orRacine by lending personal and poetical feeling.

This really angelic strain showed what treasures lay hidden in thatstupendous opera, which, however, would never find comprehension solong as the musician persisted in trying to explain it in his presentdemented state. His wife and the Count were equally divided betweenthe music and their surprise at this hundred-voiced instrument, insidewhich a stranger might have fancied an invisible chorus of girls werehidden, so closely did some of the tones resemble the human voice; andthey dared not express their ideas by a look or a word. Marianna'sface was lighted up by a radiant beam of hope which revived theglories of her youth. This renascence of beauty, co-existent with theluminous glow of her husband's genius, cast a shade of regret on theCount's exquisite pleasure in this mysterious hour.

"You are our good genius!" whispered Marianna. "I am tempted tobelieve that you actually inspire him; for I, who never am away fromhim, have never heard anything like this."

"And Kadijah's farewell!" cried Gambara, who sang the /cavatina/ whichhe had described the day before as sublime, and which now broughttears to the eyes of the lovers, so perfectly did it express theloftiest devotion of love.

"Who can have taught you such strains?" cried the Count.

"The Spirit," said Gambara. "When he appears, all is fire. I see themelodies there before me; lovely, fresh in vivid hues like flowers.They beam on me, they ring out,--and I listen. But it takes a long,long time to reproduce them."

"Some more!" said Marianna.

Gambara, who could not tire, played on without effort or antics. Heperformed his overture with such skill, bringing out such rich andoriginal musical effects, that the Count was quite dazzled, and atlast believed in some magic like that commanded by Paganini and Liszt,--a style of execution which changes every aspect of music as an art,by giving it a poetic quality far above musical inventions.

"Well, Excellenza, and can you cure him?" asked Giardini, as Andreacame out.

"I shall soon find out," replied the Count. "This man's intellect hastwo windows; one is closed to the world, the other is open to theheavens. The first is music, the second is poetry. Till now he hasinsisted on sitting in front of the shuttered window; he must be gotto the other. It was you, Giardini, who first started me on the righttrack, by telling me that your client's mind was clearer afterdrinking a few glasses of wine."

"Yes," cried the cook, "and I can see what your plan is."

"If it is not too late to make the thunder of poetry audible to hisears, in the midst of the harmonies of some noble music, we must puthim into a condition to receive it and appreciate it. Will you help meto intoxicate Gambara, my good fellow? Will you be none the worse forit?"

"What do you mean, Excellenza?"

Andrea went off without answering him, laughing at the acumen stillleft to this cracked wit.

On the following day he called for Marianna, who had spent the morningin arranging her dress,--a simple but decent outfit, on which she hadspent all her little savings. The transformation would have destroyedthe illusions of a mere dangler; but Andrea's caprice had become apassion. Marianna, diverted of her picturesque poverty, and lookinglike any ordinary woman of modest rank, inspired dreams of weddedlife.

He handed her into a hackney coach, and told her of the plans he hadin his head; and she approved of everything, happy in finding heradmirer more lofty, more generous, more disinterested than she haddared to hope. He took her to a little apartment, where he had allowedhimself to remind her of his good offices by some of the eleganttrifles which have a charm for the most virtuous women.

"I will never speak to you of love till you give up all hope of yourPaolo," said the Count to Marianna, as he bid her good-bye at the RueFroid-Manteau. "You will be witness to the sincerity of my attempts.If they succeed. I may find myself unequal to keeping up my part as afriend; but in that case I shall go far away, Marianna. Though I havefirmness enough to work for your happiness, I shall not have so muchas will enable me to look on at it."

"Do not say such things. Generosity, too, has its dangers," said she,swallowing down her tears. "But are you going now?"

"Yes," said Andrea; "be happy, without any drawbacks."

If Giardini might be believed, the new treatment was beneficial toboth husband and wife. Every evening after his wine, Gambara seemedless self-centered, talked more, and with great lucidity; he evenspoke at last of reading the papers. Andrea could not help quaking athis unexpectedly rapid success; but though his distress made him awareof the strength of his passion, it did not make him waver in hisvirtuous resolve.

One day he called to note the progress of this singular cure. Thoughthe state of the patient at first gave him satisfaction, his joy wasdashed by Marianna's beauty, for an easy life had restored itsbrilliancy. He called now every evening to enjoy calm and seriousconversation, to which he contributed lucid and well consideredarguments controverting Gambara's singular theories. He took advantageof the remarkable acumen of the composer's mind as to every point nottoo directly bearing on his manias, to obtain his assent to principlesin various branches of art, and apply them subsequently to music. Allwas well so long as the patient's brain was heated with the fumes ofwine; but as soon as he had recovered--or, rather, lost--his reason,he was a monomaniac once more.

However, Paolo was already more easily diverted by the impression ofoutside things; his mind was more capable of addressing itself toseveral points at a time.

Andrea, who took an artistic interest in his semi-medical treatment,thought at last that the time had come for a great experiment. Hewould give a dinner at his own house, to which he would inviteGiardini for the sake of keeping the tragedy and the parody side byside, and afterwards take the party to the first performance of/Robert le Diable/. He had seen it in rehearsal, and he judged it wellfitted to open his patient's eyes.

By the end of the second course, Gambara was already tipsy, laughingat himself with a very good grace; while Giardini confessed that hisculinary innovations were not worth a rush. Andrea had neglectednothing that could contribute to this twofold miracle. The wines ofOrvieto and of Montefiascone, conveyed with the peculiar care neededin moving them, Lachrymachristi and Giro,--all the heady liqueurs of/la cara Patria/,--went to their brains with the intoxication alike ofthe grape and of fond memory. At dessert the musician and the cookboth abjured every heresy; one was humming a /cavatina/ by Rossini,and the other piling delicacies on his plate and washing them downwith Maraschino from Zara, to the prosperity of the French /cuisine/.

The Count took advantage of this happy frame of mind, and Gambaraallowed himself to be taken to the opera like a lamb.

At the first introductory notes Gambara's intoxication appeared toclear away and make way for the feverish excitement which sometimesbrought his judgment and his imagination into perfect harmony; for itwas their habitual disagreement, no doubt, that caused his madness.The ruling idea of that great musical drama appeared to him, no doubt,in its noble simplicity, like a lightning flash, illuminating theutter darkness in which he lived. To his unsealed eyes this musicrevealed the immense horizons of a world in which he found himself forthe first time, though recognizing it as that he had seen in hisdreams. He fancied himself transported into the scenery of his nativeland, where that beautiful Italian landscape begins at what Napoleonso cleverly described as the /glacis/ of the Alps. Carried back bymemory to the time when his young and eager brain was as yetuntroubled by the ecstasy of his too exuberant imagination he listenedwith religious awe and would not utter a single word. The Countrespected the internal travail of his soul. Till half-past twelveGambara sat so perfectly motionless that the frequenters of the operahouse took him, no doubt, for what he was--a man drunk.

On their return, Andrea began to attack Meyerbeer's work, in order towake up Gambara, who sat sunk in the half-torpid state common indrunkards.

"What is there in that incoherent score to reduce you to a conditionof somnambulism?" asked Andrea, when they got out at his house. "Thestory of /Robert le Diable/, to be sure, is not devoid of interest,and Holtei has worked it out with great skill in a drama that is verywell written and full of strong and pathetic situations; but theFrench librettist has contrived to extract from it the most ridiculousfarrago of nonsense. The absurdities of the libretti of Vesari andSchikander are not to compare with those of the words of Robert leDiable; it is a dramatic nightmare, which oppresses the hearer withoutdeeply moving him.

"And Meyerbeer has given the devil a too prominent part. Bertram andAlice represent the contest between right and wrong, the spirits ofgood and evil. This antagonism offered a splendid opportunity to thecomposer. The sweetest melodies, in juxtaposition with harsh and crudestrains, was the natural outcome of the form of the story; but in theGerman composer's score the demons sing better than the saints. Theheavenly airs belie their origin, and when the composer abandons theinfernal motives he returns to them as soon as possible, fatigued withthe effort of keeping aloof from them. Melody, the golden thread thatought never to be lost throughout so vast a plan, often vanishes fromMeyerbeer's work. Feeling counts for nothing, the heart has no part init. Hence we never come upon those happy inventions, those artlessscenes, which captivate all our sympathies and leave a blissfulimpression on the soul.

"Harmony reigns supreme, instead of being the foundation from whichthe melodic groups of the musical picture stand forth. Thesediscordant combinations, far from moving the listener, arouse in him afeeling analogous to that which he would experience on seeing a rope-dancer hanging to a thread and swaying between life and death. Neverdoes a soothing strain come in to mitigate the fatiguing suspense. Itreally is as though the composer had had no other object in view thanto produce a baroque effect without troubling himself about musicaltruth or unity, or about the capabilities of human voices which areswamped by this flood of instrumental noise."

"Silence, my friend!" cried Gambara. "I am still under the spell ofthat glorious chorus of hell, made still more terrible by the longtrumpets,--a new method of instrumentation. The broken /cadenzas/which give such force to Robert's scene, the /cavatina/ in the fourthact, the /finale/ of the first, all hold me in the grip of asupernatural power. No, not even Gluck's declamation ever produced soprodigious an effect, and I am amazed by such skill and learning."

"Signor Maestro," said Andrea, smiling, "allow me to contradict you.Gluck, before he wrote, reflected long; he calculated the chances, andhe decided on a plan which might be subsequently modified by hisinspirations as to detail, but hindered him from ever losing his way.Hence his power of emphasis, his declamatory style thrilling with lifeand truth. I quite agree with you that Meyerbeer's learning istranscendent; but science is a defect when it evicts inspiration, andit seems to me that we have in this opera the painful toil of arefined craftsman who in his music has but picked up thousands ofphrases out of other operas, damned or forgotten, and appropriatedthem, while extending, modifying, or condensing them. But he hasfallen into the error of all selectors of /centos/,--an abuse of goodthings. This clever harvester of notes is lavish of discords, which,when too often introduced, fatigue the ear till those great effectspall upon it which a composer should husband with care to make themore effective use of them when the situation requires it. Theseenharmonic passages recur to satiety, and the abuse of the plagalcadence deprives it of its religious solemnity.

"I know, of course, that every musician has certain forms to which hedrifts back in spite of himself; he should watch himself so as toavoid that blunder. A picture in which there were no colors but blueand red would be untrue to nature, and fatigue the eye. And thus theconstantly recurring rhythm in the score of /Robert le Diable/ makesthe work, as a whole, appear monotonous. As to the effect of the longtrumpets, of which you speak, it has long been known in Germany; andwhat Meyerbeer offers us as a novelty was constantly used by Mozart,who gives just such a chorus to the devils in /Don Giovanni/."

By plying Gambara, meanwhile, with fresh libations, Andrea thusstrove, by his contradictoriness, to bring the musician back to a truesense of music, by proving to him that his so-called mission was notto try to regenerate an art beyond his powers, but to seek to expresshimself in another form; namely, that of poetry.

"But, my dear Count, you have understood nothing of that stupendousmusical drama," said Gambara, airily, as standing in front of Andrea'spiano he struck the keys, listened to the tone, and then seatedhimself, meditating for a few minutes as if to collect his ideas.

"To begin with, you must know," said he, "that an ear as practised asmine at once detected that labor of choice and setting of which youspoke. Yes, the music has been selected, lovingly, from the storehouseof a rich and fertile imagination wherein learning has squeezed everyidea to extract the very essence of music. I will illustrate theprocess."

He rose to carry the candles into the adjoining room, and beforesitting down again he drank a full glass of Giro, a Sardinian wine, asfull of fire as the old wines of Tokay can inspire.

"Now, you see," said Gambara, "this music is not written formisbelievers, nor for those who know not love. If you have neversuffered from the virulent attacks of an evil spirit who shifts yourobject just as you are taking aim, who puts a fatal end to yourhighest hopes,--in one word, if you have never felt the devil's tailwhisking over the world, the opera of /Robert le Diable/ must be toyou, what the Apocalypse is to those who believe that all things willend with them. But if, persecuted and wretched, you understand thatSpirit of Evil,--the monstrous ape who is perpetually employed indestroying the work of God,--if you can conceive of him as having, notindeed loved, but ravished, an almost divine woman, and achievedthrough her the joy of paternity; as so loving his son that he wouldrather have him eternally miserable with himself than think of him aseternally happy with God; if, finally, you can imagine the mother'ssoul for ever hovering over the child's head to snatch it from theatrocious temptations offered by its father,--even then you will havebut a faint idea of this stupendous drama, which needs but little tomake it worthy of comparison with Mozart's /Don Giovanni/. /DonGiovanni/ is in its perfection the greater, I grant; /Robert leDiable/ expresses ideas, /Don Giovanni/ arouses sensations. /DonGiovanni/ is as yet the only musical work in which harmony and melodyare combined in exactly the right proportions. In this lies its onlysuperiority, for /Robert/ is the richer work. But how vain are suchcomparisons since each is so beautiful in its own way!

"To me, suffering as I do from the demon's repeated shocks, Robertspoke with greater power than to you; it struck me as being at thesame time vast and concentrated.

"Thanks to you, I have been transported to the glorious land of dreamswhere our senses expand, and the world works on a scale which isgigantic as compared with man."

He was silent for a space.

"I am trembling still," said the ill-starred artist, "from the fourbars of cymbals which pierced to my marrow as they opened that short,abrupt introduction with its solo for trombone, its flutes, oboes, andclarionet, all suggesting the most fantastic effects of color. The/andante/ in C minor is a foretaste of the subject of the evocation ofthe ghosts in the abbey, and gives grandeur to the scene byanticipating the spiritual struggle. I shivered."

Gambara pressed the keys with a firm hand and expanded Meyerbeer'stheme in a masterly /fantasia/, a sort of outpouring of his soul afterthe manner of Liszt. It was no longer the piano, it was a wholeorchestra that they heard; the very genius of music rose before them.

"That was worthy of Mozart!" he exclaimed. "See how that German canhandle his chords, and through what masterly modulations he raises theimage of terror to come to the dominant C. I can hear all hell in it!

"The curtain rises. What do I see? The only scene to which we gave theepithet infernal: an orgy of knights in Sicily. In that chorus in Fevery human passion is unchained in a bacchanalian /allegro/. Everythread by which the devil holds us is pulled. Yes, that is the sort ofglee that comes over men when they dance on the edge of a precipice;they make themselves giddy. What /go/ there is in that chorus!

"Against that chorus--the reality of life--the simple life of every-day virtue stands out in the air, in G minor, sung by Raimbaut. For amoment it refreshed my spirit to hear the simple fellow,representative of verdurous and fruitful Normandy, which he brings toRobert's mind in the midst of his drunkenness. The sweet influence ofhis beloved native land lends a touch of tender color to this gloomyopening.

"Then comes the wonderful air in C major, supported by the chorus in Cminor, so expressive of the subject. '/Je suis Robert/!' heimmediately breaks out. The wrath of the prince, insulted by hisvassal, is already more than natural anger; but it will die away, formemories of his childhood come to him, with Alice, in the bright andgraceful /allegro/ in A major.

"Can you not hear the cries of the innocent dragged into this infernaldrama,--a persecuted creature? '/Non, non/,' " sang Gambara, who madethe consumptive piano sing. "His native land and tender emotions havecome back to him; his childhood and its memories have blossomed anewin Robert's heart. And now his mother's shade rises up, bringing withit soothing religious thoughts. It is religion that lives in thatbeautiful song in E major, with its wonderful harmonic and melodicprogression in the words:

"Car dans les cieux, comme sur la terre, Sa mere va prier pour lui.

"Here the struggle begins between the unseen powers and the only humanbeing who has the fire of hell in his veins to enable him to resistthem; and to make this quite clear, as Bertram comes on, the greatmusician has given the orchestra a passage introducing a reminiscenceof Raimbaut's ballad. What a stroke of art! What cohesion of all theparts! What solidity of structure!

"The devil is there, in hiding, but restless. The conflict of theantagonistic powers opens with Alice's terror; she recognizes thedevil of the image of Saint Michael in her village. The musicalsubject is worked out through an endless variety of phases. Theantithesis indispensable in opera is emphatically presented in a noble/recitative/, such as a Gluck might have composed, between Bertram andRobert:

"Tu se sauras jamais a quel exces je t'aime.

"In that diabolical C minor, Bertram, with his terrible bass, beginshis work of undermining which will overthrow every effort of thevehement, passionate man.

"Here, everything is appalling. Will the crime get possession of thecriminal? Will the executioner seize his victim? Will sorrow consumethe artist's genius? Will the disease kill the patient? or, will theguardian angel save the Christian?

"Then comes the /finale/, the gambling scene in which Bertram tortureshis son by rousing him to tremendous emotions. Robert, beggared,frenzied, searching everything, eager for blood, fire, and sword, ishis own son; in this mood he is exactly like his father. What hideousglee we hear in Bertram's words: '/Je ris de tes coups/!' And howperfectly the Venetian /barcarole/ comes in here. Through whatwonderful transitions the diabolical parent is brought on to the stageonce more to make Robert throw the dice.

"This first act is overwhelming to any one capable of working out thesubjects in his very heart, and lending them the breadth ofdevelopment which the composer intended them to call forth.

"Nothing but love could now be contrasted with this noble symphony ofsong, in which you will detect no monotony, no repetitions of meansand effects. It is one, but many; the characteristic of all that istruly great and natural.

"I breathe more freely; I find myself in the elegant circle of agallant court; I hear Isabella's charming phrases, fresh, but almostmelancholy, and the female chorus in two divisions, and in/imitation/, with a suggestion of the Moorish coloring of Spain. Herethe terrifying music is softened to gentler hues, like a storm dyingaway, and ends in the florid prettiness of a duet wholly unlikeanything that has come before it. After the turmoil of a camp full oferrant heroes, we have a picture of love. Poet! I thank thee! My heartcould not have borne much more. If I could not here and there pluckthe daisies of a French light opera, if I could not hear the gentlewit of a woman able to love and to charm, I could not endure theterrible deep note on which Bertram comes in, saying to his son: '/Sije la permets/!' when Robert had promised the princess he adores thathe will conquer with the arms she has bestowed on him.

"The hopes of the gambler cured by love, the love of a most beautifulwoman,--did you observe that magnificent Sicilian, with her hawk's eyesecure of her prey? (What interpreters that composer has found!) thehopes of the man are mocked at by the hopes of hell in the tremendouscry: '/A toi, Robert de Normandie/!'

"And are not you struck by the gloom and horror of those long-heldnotes, to which the words are set: '/Dans la foret prochaine/'? Wefind here all the sinister spells of /Jerusalem Delivered/, just as wefind all chivalry in the chorus with the Spanish lilt, and in themarch tune. How original is the /alegro/ with the modulations of thefour cymbals (tuned to C, D, C, G)! How elegant is the call to thelists! The whole movement of the heroic life of the period is there:the mind enters into it; I read in it a romance, a poem of chivalry.The /exposition/ is now finished; the resources of music would seem tobe exhausted; you have never heard anything like it before; and yet itis homogeneous. You have had life set before you, and its one and only/crux/: 'Shall I be happy or unhappy?' is the philosopher's query.'Shall I be saved or damned?' asks the Christian."

With these words Gambara struck the last chord of the chorus, dwelt onit with a melancholy modulation, and then rose to drink another largeglass of Giro. This half-African vintage gave his face a deeper flush,for his passionate and wonderful sketch of Meyerbeer's opera had madehim turn a little pale.

"That nothing may be lacking to this composition," he went on, "thegreat artist has generously added the only /buffo/ duet permissiblefor a devil: that in which he tempts the unhappy troubadour. Thecomposer has set jocosity side by side with horror--a jocosity inwhich he mocks at the only realism he had allowed himself amid thesublime imaginings of his work--the pure calm love of Alice andRaimbaut; and their life is overshadowed by the forecast of evil.

"None but a lofty soul can feel the noble style of these /buffo/ airs;they have neither the superabundant frivolity of Italian music nor thevulgar accent of French commonplace; rather have they the majesty ofOlympus. There is the bitter laughter of a divine being mocking thesurprise of a troubadour Don-Juanizing himself. But for this dignitywe should be too suddenly brought down to the general tone of theopera, here stamped on that terrible fury of diminished sevenths whichresolves itself into an infernal waltz, and finally brings us face toface with the demons.

"How emphatically Bertram's couplet stands out in B minor against thatdiabolical chorus, depicting his paternity, but mingling in fearfuldespair with these demoniacal strains.

"Then comes the delightful transition of Alice's reappearance, withthe /ritornel/ in B flat. I can still hear that air of angelicalsimplicity--the nightingale after a storm. Thus the grand leading ideaof the whole is worked out in the details; for what could be moreperfectly in contrast with the tumult of devils tossing in the pitthan that wonderful air given to Alice? '/Quand j'ai quitte laNormandie/.'

"The golden thread of melody flows on, side by side with the mightyharmony, like a heavenly hope; it is embroidered on it, and with whatmarvelous skill! Genius never lets go of the science that guides it.Here Alice's song is in B flat leading into F sharp, the key of thedemon's chorus. Do you hear the tremolo in the orchestra? The host ofdevils clamor for Robert.

"Bertram now reappears, and this is the culminating point of musicalinterest; after a /recitative/, worthy of comparison with the finestwork of the great masters, comes the fierce conflict in E flat betweentwo tremendous forces--one on the words '/Oui, tu me connais/!' on adiminished seventh; the other, on that sublime F, '/Le ciel est avecmoi/.' Hell and the Crucifix have met for battle. Next we have Bertramthreatening Alice, the most violent pathos ever heard--the Spirit ofEvil expatiating complacently, and, as usual, appealing to personalinterest. Robert's arrival gives us the magnificent unaccompanied trioin A flat, the first skirmish between the two rival forces and theman. And note how clearly that is expressed," said Gambara,epitomizing the scene with such passion of expression as startledAndrea.

"All this avalanche of music, from the clash of cymbals in commontime, has been gathering up to this contest of three voices. The magicof evil triumphs! Alice flies, and you have the duet in D betweenBertram and Robert. The devil sets his talons in the man's heart; hetears it to make it his own; he works on every feeling. Honor, hope,eternal and infinite pleasures--he displays them all. He places him,as he did Jesus, on the pinnacle of the Temple, and shows him all thetreasures of the earth, the storehouse of sin. He nettles him toflaunt his courage; and the man's nobler mind is expressed in hisexclamation:

"Des chevaliers de ma patrie L'honneur toujours fut le soutien!

"And finally, to crown the work, the theme comes in which sounded thenote of fatality at the beginning. Thus, the leading strain, themagnificent call to the deed:

"Nonnes qui reposez sous cette froide pierre, M'entendez-vous?

"The career of the music, gloriously worked out, is gloriouslyfinished by the /allegro vivace/ of the bacchanalian chorus in Dminor. This, indeed, is the triumph of hell! Roll on, harmony, andwrap us in a thousand folds! Roll on, bewitch us! The powers ofdarkness have clutched their prey; they hold him while they dance. Thegreat genius, born to conquer and to reign, is lost! The devilsrejoice, misery stifles genius, passion will wreck the knight!"

And here Gambara improvised a /fantasia/ of his own on thebacchanalian chorus, with ingenious variations, and humming the air ina melancholy drone as if to express the secret sufferings he hadknown.

"Do you hear the heavenly lamentations of neglected love?" he said."Isabella calls to Robert above the grand chorus of knights ridingforth to the tournament, in which the /motifs/ of the second actreappear to make it clear that the third act has all taken place in asupernatural sphere. This is real life again. This chorus dies away atthe approach of the hellish enchantment brought by Robert with thetalisman. The deviltry of the third act is to be carried on. Here wehave the duet with the viol; the rhythm is highly expressive of thebrutal desires of a man who is omnipotent, and the Princess, byplaintive phrases, tries to win her lover back to moderation. Themusician has here placed himself in a situation of great difficulty,and has surmounted it in the loveliest number of the whole opera. Howcharming is the melody of the /cavatina 'Grace pour toi!'/ All thewomen present understood it well; each saw herself seized and snatchedaway on the stage. That part alone would suffice to make the fortuneof the opera. Every woman felt herself engaged in a struggle with someviolent lover. Never was music so passionate and so dramatic.

"The whole world now rises in arms against the reprobate. This/finale/ may be criticised for its resemblance to that of /DonGiovanni/; but there is this immense difference: in Isabella we havethe expression of the noblest faith, a true love that will saveRobert, for he scornfully rejects the infernal powers bestowed on him,while Don Giovanni persists in his unbelief. Moreover, that particularfault is common to every composer who has written a /finale/ sinceMozart. The /finale/ to /Don Giovanni/ is one of those classic formsthat are invented once for all.

"At last religion wins the day, uplifting the voice that governsworlds, that invites all sorrow to come for consolation, allrepentance to be forgiven and helped.

"The whole house was stirred by the chorus:

"Malheureaux on coupables Hatez-vous d'accourir!

"In the terrific tumult of raving passions, the holy Voice would havebeen unheard; but at this critical moment it sounds like thunder; thedivine Catholic Church rises glorious in light. And here I was amazedto find that after such lavish use of harmonic treasure, the composerhad come upon a new vein with the splendid chorus: '/Gloire a laProvidence/' in the manner of Handel.

"Robert rushes on with his heartrending cry: '/Si je pouvais prier/!'and Bertram, driven by the infernal decree, pursues his son, and makesa last effort. Alice has called up the vision of the Mother, and nowcomes the grand trio to which the whole opera has led up: the triumphof the soul over matter, of the Spirit of Good over the Spirit ofEvil. The strains of piety prevail over the chorus of hell, andhappiness appears glorious; but here the music is weaker. I only saw acathedral instead of hearing a concert of angels in bliss, and adivine prayer consecrating the union of Robert and Isabella. We oughtnot to have been left oppressed by the spells of hell; we ought toemerge with hope in our heart.

"I, as musician and a Catholic, wanted another prayer like that in/Mose/. I should have liked to see how Germany would contend withItaly, what Meyerbeer could do in rivalry with Rossini.

"However, in spite of this trifling blemish, the writer cannot saythat after five hours of such solid music, a Parisian prefers a bit ofribbon to a musical masterpiece. You heard how the work was applauded;it will go through five hundred performances! If the French reallyunderstand that music----"

"It is because it expresses ideas," the Count put in.

"No; it is because it sets forth in a definite shape a picture of thestruggle in which so many perish, and because every individual life isimplicated in it through memory. Ah! I, hapless wretch, should havebeen too happy to hear the sound of those heavenly voices I have sooften dreamed of."

Hereupon Gambara fell into a musical day-dream, improvising the mostlovely melodious and harmonious /cavatina/ that Andrea would ever hearon earth; a divine strain divinely performed on a theme as exquisiteas that of /O filii et filioe/, but graced with additions such as nonebut the loftiest musical genius could devise.

The Count sat lost in keen admiration; the clouds cleared away, theblue sky opened, figures of angels appeared lifting the veil that hidthe sanctuary, and the light of heaven poured down.

There was a sudden silence.

The Count, surprised at the cessation of the music, looked at Gambara,who, with fixed gaze, in the attitude of a visionary, murmured theword: "God!"

Andrea waited till the composer had descended from the enchanted realmto which he had soared on the many-hued wings of inspiration,intending to show him the truth by the light he himself would bringdown with him.

"Well," said he, pouring him out another bumper of wine and clinkingglasses with him, "this German has, you see, written a sublime operawithout troubling himself with theories, while those musicians whowrite grammars of harmony may, like literary critics, be atrociouscomposers."

"Then you do not like my music?"

"I do not say so. But if, instead of carrying musical principles to anextreme--which takes you too far--you would simply try to arouse ourfeelings, you would be better understood, unless indeed you havemistaken your vocation. You are a great poet."

"What," cried Gambara, "are twenty-five years of study in vain? Am Ito learn the imperfect language of men when I have the key to theheavenly tongue? Oh, if you are right,--I should die."

"No, no. You are great and strong; you would begin life again, and Iwould support you. We would show the world the noble and rare allianceof a rich man and an artist in perfect sympathy and understanding."

"Do you mean it?" asked Gambara, struck with amazement.

"As I have told you, you are a poet more than a musician."

"A poet, a poet! It is better than nothing. But tell me truly, whichdo you esteem most highly, Mozart or Homer?"

"I admire them equally."

"On your honor?"

"On my honor."

"H'm! Once more. What do you think of Meyerbeer and Byron?"

"You have measured them by naming them together."

The Count's carriage was waiting. The composer and his noble physicianran down-stairs, and in a few minutes they were with Marianna.

As they went in, Gambara threw himself into his wife's arms, but shedrew back a step and turned away her head; the husband also drew backand beamed on the Count.

"Oh, monsieur!" said Gambara in a husky voice, "you might have left memy illusions." He hung his head, and then fell.

"What have you done to him? He is dead drunk!" cried Marianna, lookingdown at her husband with a mingled expression of pity and disgust.

The Count, with the help of his servant, picked up Gambara and laidhim on his bed.

Then Andrea left, his heart exultant with horrible gladness.

The Count let the usual hour for calling slip past next day, for hebegan to fear lest he had duped himself and had made this humblecouple pay too dear for their improved circumstances and added wisdom,since their peace was destroyed for ever.

At last Giardini came to him with a note from Marianna.

"Come," she wrote, "the mischief is not so great as you so cruellymeant it to be."

"Excellenza," said the cook, while Andrea was making ready, "youtreated us splendidly last evening. But apart from the wine, which wasexcellent, your steward did not put anything on the table that wasworthy to set before a true epicure. You will not deny, I suppose,that the dish I sent to you on the day when you did me the honor tosit down at my board, contained the quintessence of all those thatdisgraced your magnificent service of plate? And when I awoke thismorning I remembered the promise you once made me of a place as/chef/. Henceforth I consider myself as a member of your household."

"I thought of the same thing a few days ago," replied Andrea. "Imentioned you to the secretary of the Austrian Embassy, and you havepermission to recross the Alps as soon as you please. I have a castlein Croatia which I rarely visit. There you may combine the offices ofgate-keeper, butler, and steward, with two hundred crowns a year. Yourwife will have as much for doing all the rest of the work. You maymake all the experiments you please /in anima vili/, that is to say onthe stomach of my vassals. Here is a cheque for your travelingexpenses."

Giardini kissed the Count's hand after the Neapolitan fashion.

"Excellenza," said he, "I accept the cheque, but beg to decline theplace. It would dishonor me to give up my art by losing the opinion ofthe most perfect epicures, who are certainly to be found in Paris."

"My generous friend," said he, with the utmost frankness, "you eithertook advantage, last evening, of the weakness of my brain to make afool of me, or else your brain is no more capable of standing the testof the heady liquors of our native Latium, than mine is. I will assumethis latter hypothesis; I would rather doubt your digestion than yourheart. Be this as it may, henceforth I drink no more wine--for ever.The abuse of good liquor last evening led me into much guilty folly.When I remember that I very nearly----" He gave a glance of terror atMarianna. "As to the wretched opera you took me to hear, I havethought it over, and it is, after all, music written on ordinarylines, a mountain of piled-up notes, /verba et voces/. It is but thedregs of the nectar I can drink in deep draughts as I reproduce theheavenly music that I hear! It is a patchwork of airs of which I couldtrace the origin. The passage '/Gloire a la Providence/' is too muchlike a bit of Handel; the chorus of knights is closely related to theScotch air in /La Dame Blanche/; in short, if this opera is a success,it is because the music is borrowed from everybody's--so it ought tobe popular.

"I will say good-bye to you, my dear friend. I have had some ideasseething in my brain since the morning that only wait to soar up toGod on the wings of song, but I wished to see you. Good-bye; I mustask forgiveness of the Muse. We shall meet at dinner to-night--but nowine; at any rate, none for me. I am firmly resolved--"

"I give him up!" cried Andrea, flushing red.

"And you restore my sense of conscience," said Marianna. "I dared notappeal to it! My friend, my friend, it is no fault of ours; he doesnot want to be cured."

Six years after this, in January 1837, such artists as were so unluckyas to damage their wind or stringed instruments, generally took themto the Rue Froid-Manteau, to a squalid and horrible house, where, onthe fifth floor, dwelt an old Italian named Gambara.

For five years past he had been left to himself, deserted by his wife;he had gone through many misfortunes. An instrument on which he hadrelied to make his fortune, and which he called a /Panharmonicon/, hadbeen sold by order of the Court on the public square, Place duChatelet, together with a cartload of music paper scrawled with notes.The day after the sale, these scores had served in the market to wrapup butter, fish, and fruit.

Thus the three grand operas of which the poor man would boast, butwhich an old Neapolitan cook, who was now but a patcher up of brokenmeats, declared to be a heap of nonsense, were scattered throughoutParis on the trucks of costermongers. But at any rate, the landlordhad got his rent and the bailiffs their expenses.

According to the Neapolitan cook--who warmed up for the street-walkersof the Rue Froid-Manteau the fragments left from the most sumptuousdinners in Paris--Signora Gambara had gone off to Italy with aMilanese nobleman, and no one knew what had become of her. Worn outwith fifteen years of misery, she was very likely ruining the Count byher extravagant luxury, for they were so devotedly adoring, that inall his life, Giardini could recall no instance of such a passion.

Towards the end of that very January, one evening when Giardini waschatting with a girl who had come to buy her supper, about the divineMarianna--so poor, so beautiful, so heroically devoted, and who had,nevertheless, "gone the way of them all," the cook, his wife, and thestreet-girl saw coming towards them a woman fearfully thin, with asunburned, dusty face; a nervous walking skeleton, looking at thenumbers, and trying to recognize a house.

"/Ecco la Marianna/!" exclaimed the cook.

Marianna recognized Giardini, the erewhile cook, in the poor fellowshe saw, without wondering by what series of disasters he had sunk tokeep a miserable shop for secondhand food. She went in and sat down,for she had come from Fontainebleau. She had walked fourteen leaguesthat day, after begging her bread from Turin to Paris.

She frightened that terrible trio! Of all her wondrous beauty nothingremained but her fine eyes, dimmed and sunken. The only thing faithfulto her was misfortune.

She was welcomed by the skilled old instrument mender, who greeted herwith unspeakable joy.

"Why, here you are, my poor Marianna!" said he, warmly. "During yourabsence they sold up my instrument and my operas."

It would have been difficult to kill the fatted calf for the return ofthe Samaritan, but Giardini contributed the fag end of a salmon, thetrull paid for wine, Gambara produced some bread, Signora Giardinilent a cloth, and the unfortunates all supped together in themusician's garret.

When questioned as to her adventures, Marianna would make no reply;she only raised her beautiful eyes to heaven and whispered toGiardini:

"He married a dancer!"

"And how do you mean to live?" said the girl. "The journey has ruinedyou, and----"

"And made me an old woman," said Marianna. "No, that is not the resultof fatigue or hardship, but of grief."

"And why did you never send your man here any money?" asked the girl.

Marianna's only answer was a look, but it went to the woman's heart.

"She is proud with a vengeance!" she exclaimed. "And much good it hasdone her!" she added in Giardini's ear.

All that year musicians took especial care of their instruments, andrepairs did not bring in enough to enable the poor couple to pay theirway; the wife, too, did not earn much by her needle, and they werecompelled to turn their talents to account in the lowest form ofemployment. They would go out together in the dark to the ChampsElysees and sing duets, which Gambara, poor fellow, accompanied on awretched guitar. On the way, Marianna, who on these expeditionscovered her head with a sort of veil of coarse muslin, would take herhusband to the grocer's shop in the Faubourg Saint-Honore and give himtwo or three thimblefuls of brandy to make him tipsy; otherwise hecould not play. Then they would stand up together in front of thesmart people sitting on the chairs, and one of the greatest geniusesof the time, the unrecognized Orpheus of Modern Music, would performpassages from his operas--pieces so remarkable that they would extracta few half-pence from Parisian supineness. When some /dilettante/ ofcomic operas happened to be sitting there and did not recognize fromwhat work they were taken, he would question the woman dressed like aGreek priestess, who held out a bottle-stand of stamped metal in whichshe collected charity.

"I say, my dear, what is that music out of?"

"The opera of /Mahomet/," Marianna would reply.

As Rossini composed an opera called /Mahomet II./, the amateur wouldsay to his wife, sitting at his side:

"What a pity it is that they will never give us at the Italiens anyoperas by Rossini but those we know. That is really fine music!"

And Gambara would smile.

Only a few days since, this unhappy couple had to pay the trifling sumof thirty-six francs as arrears for rent for the cock-loft in whichthey lived resigned. The grocer would not give them credit for thebrandy with which Marianna plied her husband to enable him to play.Gambara was, consequently, so unendurably bad that the ears of thewealthy were irresponsive, and the tin bottle-stand remained empty.

It was nine o'clock in the evening. A handsome Italian, thePrincipessa Massimilla De Varese, took pity on the poor creatures; shegave them forty francs and questioned them, discerning from thewoman's thanks that she was a Venetian. Prince Emilio would know thehistory of their woes, and Marianna told it, making no complaints ofGod or men.

"Madame," said Gambara, as she ended, for he was sober, "we arevictims of our own superiority. My music is good. But as soon as musictranscends feeling and becomes an idea, only persons of genius shouldbe the hearers, for they alone are capable of responding to it! It ismy misfortune that I have heard the chorus of angels, and believedthat men could understand the strains. The same thing happens to womenwhen their love assumes a divine aspect: men cannot understand them."

This speech was well worth the forty francs bestowed by Massimilla;she took out a second gold piece, and told Marianna she would write toAndrea Marcosini.

"Let us provide for them," said the Princess to her husband; "for thisman has remained faithful to the Ideal which we have killed."

As he saw the gold pieces, Gambara shed tears; and then a vaguereminiscence of old scientific experiments crossed his mind, and thehapless composer, as he wiped his eyes, spoke these words, which thecircumstances made pathetic: